


i carry your heart with me

by jenhyung



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drama, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Minor Jung Yoonoh | Jaehyun/Nakamoto Yuta, Minor Moon Taeil/Seo Youngho | Johnny, Minor Wong Yuk Hei | Lucas/Qian Kun, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-06-30 01:04:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 57,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19842313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenhyung/pseuds/jenhyung
Summary: "Forever. I’ll carry it with mine.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt N-805: Taeyong has never had a name appear on his wrist, but somehow he knows that Doyoung is still his soulmate. Non-traditional soulmate AU where: Taeyong believes that his feelings for Doyoung can overcome the old tradition that everyone follows. 
> 
> Notes/Bonus Points: Writer can change the marking for soulmates if they would like.
> 
>  **Warnings** : Angst, arguments, insecurities.

Time was away and somewhere else,  
There were two glasses and two chairs  
And two people with the one pulse  
(Somebody stopped the moving stairs):  
Time was away and somewhere else.

And they were neither up nor down;  
The stream’s music did not stop  
Flowing through heather, limpid brown,  
Although they sat in a coffee shop  
And they were neither up nor down.

Time was away and he was here  
And life no longer what it was,  
The bell was silent in the air  
And all the room one glow because  
Time was away and he was here.

\-- _Meeting Point_ (revised), Louis Macneice

\--

September

Taeyong isn’t even supposed to be here tonight.

He’s supposed to be in bed with his comforter pulled up to his chin, laptop on his chest, focused on nothing but reruns of whatever sitcom gets recommended on Netflix first. There should be a bag of chips by his side, a bottle of peach-flavored tea on the other, and maybe a bar or two of chocolates just for some snacking variation.

Instead, he’s standing in the middle of a convenience store, the overhead lights unpleasantly cold and bright to the point it’s almost blinding. He blinks the bleariness away to focus on the row of chocolates in front of him, lips tugging downwards when he finds that the price doubles the ones in a regular grocery store. The security camera planted on the top corner of the store flashes red, seizing him with some shallow sense of apprehension that the old lady behind the cashier has somehow realized his objective of picking the cheapest thing he can find.

“–and it’s not like there’s something wrong with me, right?” Youngho’s voice drones on, infesting Taeyong’s dilemma. He paces along the aisle, a hand on his head, the other on his hip, “I mean, I should be nervous. There’s nothing wrong with being nervous. This is a huge, huge, _huge_ deal, you know? And I know something’s going to happen, it has to. I just can’t seem to–”

Taeyong sighs inwardly, reluctantly picking out an overpriced milk chocolate bar. They’ve been standing in this store for close to twenty minutes now, he isn’t about to leave empty-handed. Not when the lady by the counter has been eyeing them suspiciously ever since they’d entered, Youngho’s spiel reverberating around the empty store. 

The bell by the entrance rings. 

It does nothing to stop Youngho and his endless chatter of how his nerves are going to get the better of him tonight. On some level, Taeyong knows he should really be a little more sympathetic for his best friend–it _is_ the first time Youngho’s meeting his boyfriend’s family.

It was unexpected, how Taeil’s parents called on Sunday night, deciding on-the-spot that they wanted to take a week-long trip with the extended family from the countryside to the city center. There wasn’t anything Taeil could say when they requested to have a simple dinner with Youngho, seeing as the couple have been dating for the last year or so. It’s only natural for Youngho to be introduced to the _rest_ of Taeil’s family. He didn’t freak out then, not even when Taeil did, panicking at the idea of having his boyfriend and his parents in the same room, not to mention the rest of Taeil’s aunts and uncles, most of whom have never met Youngho before, most of whom Taeil barely knows.

Though, that was four whole days ago and Taeil has since calmed down. On the flipside, Youngho has spent the last three hours figuring a way to buy himself a one-way ticket for a rocket straight to the sun–preferring obliteration over a nice dinner uptown.

“What if they don’t like my shirt?” Youngho gasps, staring down at the salmon colored tee from Uniqlo, the one he’d first met Taeil in. He pulls at the hem distressingly, “What if they don’t like my _shirt_.”

“It’s a shirt, Youngho,” Taeyong reminds. He pulls his own jacket tighter around himself, sleeves to the tips of his fingers. “I’m sure all of Taeil’s aunts will be impressed even if you went shirtless. More, even. You might want to consider that, in fact.”

“Not funny.” Youngho sulks, “Not _funny_! I’m actually freaking out here, Yong!” He pushes his right hand through brown hair, tugging on the ends agitatedly. Taeyong watches, with some degree of pity, the way Youngho holds it there, as if tearing all of his hair’s out going to help make a more lasting impression (albeit a negative one).

It catches Taeyong’s eyes then, just on the inside of Youngho’s wrist–resting timidly, his soulmark glowing gold. How can he not notice it when it’s practically a beacon in the night, a personal light signal for one Moon Taeil. His eyes linger on the mark for a second too long, turning back to the rows of chocolates and ignoring the twinge of something else picking at the corners of his heart.

Soulmarks aren’t meant to be all that noticeable. They aren’t blinding bright bulbs or _S.O.S_ flashlights trapped under skin. They’re just… marks. Small with a sort of subdued glow to it that even maybe a firefly could be brighter. All soulmarks start out gray at birth; everyone is to have one on the inside of their wrist, left or right, it didn’t matter. Just the size of a pea, inconspicuous. No bumps, just barely under the thin, sensitive stretch of skin. It stays gray until it’s not, filling in from a dull shade of bronze to the brightest hue of gold.

This happens only when soulmates cross paths. The soft tingle that comes when soulmarks color in for the very first time. Taeyong’s heard it described it many ways–Jaehyun thought it felt like the softest touch of fire, Yuta compared it to a bug bite (and then later, in secret, told Taeyong he thought it felt like a shot of ecstasy straight into his wrist, puncturing his heart). The marks come to life with only a dim tinge of yellow, its chroma intensifying with every step the paired soulmates take to one another, not unlike a natural sort of compass. It’s prophesied to be true kismet–fate–to find a soulmate radiating gold on a first encounter, as Youngho’s and Taeil’s did when they first met.

Taeyong was there when it happened. They were in Olives, a small, underground bar close by the apartment, just for a couple of lazy drinks to celebrate the last of their final exams. There was another party across the city, but Youngho insisted on calling it an early night, and Taeyong was too drained from his Electronics Technology I final to be partying hard anyway. It was midway of a heated argument about zebras and stripes when Youngho thought it would be a good idea to swing his pint of beer while making a point, drenching a passerby in pale ale. 

He hadn’t ever seen Youngho move that fast, clambering off the bar stool, nearly colliding head first into the edge of the counter. The glass in his hand dropped to the hardwood floor with a clatter, the rest of its contents splattering around messily. Taeyong was two seconds from getting to his feet to yank Youngho out of there in fear of being hauled out by security, but then, like a flare in the dimly lit bar–Youngho’s soulmark was glowing, and so was this stranger’s. It was glowing so bright that it nearly hit the verge of being embarrassing, the way people stood around them to stare and gape, collectively morphing from shock to awe. 

It was only later on in the week that Taeyong learned of how Youngho’s soulmark fired up in that first second his eyes met Taeil’s. It bit Youngho angrily, unforgivingly, shocking Youngho enough for his hand to release the glass as if he’d been struck in the face with a baseball bat.

Their soulmarks have mellowed since then. They still retain the chroma of yellow and gold, but it isn’t as blinding anymore, as if the color’s been washed out carefully, as if it’s calmed after Youngho found Taeil, after they’d found each other. There’s no doubt that it still attracts looks, all soulmarks do, by the varying shades from warm honey to a royal yellow. It marks stability and promise, and to many, hopefully a future where higher powers have deemed neither of them irreplaceable to one another.

Though no matter how picturesque the idea sounds, soulmarks are still confusing. Some say they’re law, some say they aren’t. Some live by the marks on their wrist, some live without. Some say soulmarks are the only marks of true love, the only pointer to the right decision, an oasis to insight. Some say it’s complete and utter bullshit.

It’s a never-ending discussion, but it’s without a doubt that soulmarks must mean something.

Whatever a person can understand about the yellow on their wrist and when it appears, how it changes with time and effort and love, everyone thinks of something unlike another.

“Just take a deep breath,” Taeyong says, keeping his voice low. He hears someone else on the next aisle over, “Look, you already know Taeil’s parents love you. Who cares if his second uncle twice removed ends up hating the shade of pink you’re in?

“I don’t know,” Youngho groans. He shoves his hands into his pockets roughly, “I’m just–nervous. And it matters, obviously it matters, Taeyong–I don’t know if they’ll like me, I mean, what if they don’t? What am I going to do then?”

“They’ll like you.” The wrapper of the chocolate bar in his hand wrinkles, “Besides, aren’t Taeil’s parents already enough in love you with you to think you should be on your knee asking Taeil for his hand in marriage? They constantly gush over you when they phone, don’t they?”

They hear a few bottles topple over from the row of refrigerators on the left. A quiet apology follows and Taeyong hears the refrigerator door slide shut.

Youngho grumbles something under his breath, backing out of the aisle and moving along into the next, “This is not helping at all.” Taeyong busies himself with the new row of junk food, listening to Youngho fuss, “You’re supposed to have a solution to this, Taeyong, you always have solutions.”

“Yeah,” he lays the sarcasm on thick, “just, hang on a second–let me reach into my big bag of solutions and grab you one.”

“Taeyong–”

“What do you want me to say?” Taeyong picks out a bag of ketchup chips, words tumbling from his lips, “You and Taeil are the best couple I know; you guys agree on almost every single divisive issue, you stay over at his place so often you’re practically cohabiting–I mean, you guys are perfect together, Youngho, everyone in a quarter mile radius can see it–surely you know this?”

To that, Youngho stops his pacing, pulling his hands free. He deflates with a long exhale, as if all that has never once crossed his mind.

“Really, why are you freaking out?”

He refuses to give Youngho the opportunity to doubt or hesitate over the amazing–truly amazing–relationship he has with Taeil. It’s once in a lifetime, even less, to be able to meet a soulmate. All the things that make up the universe, defying everything they know and see, the cosmic forces beyond reach working to bring two souls together. Taeyong doesn’t understand how Youngho could worry over something the fates have given him.

He doesn’t understand how Youngho can doubt something like fate.

“It’s not just fate.” Youngho argues when Taeyong tells him just that, “Being with someone is more than just fate, it’s _destiny_.” He wrings his hands in front of him, “It’s everything and anything that comes at you, Taeyong, it’s what you make of it.”

“If fate wanted you to meet Taeil’s family tonight, then–”

“–it’s not just _fate_.”

 _But your soulmark,_ Taeyong wants to say. Knowing Youngho, he settles with, “You’re already ten steps ahead here.” He grabs another bag of sea salt and vinegar chips. Arguing always corners him into a snacky mood, especially when it involves Youngho trying to school him on something he deems Taeyong to be clueless on. Resigned, “Go to the dinner, be yourself, then–” he shoots Youngho a distressed glare, “–go stay over at Taeil’s place because I can’t afford to be kept up all night tonight.”

“I–we don’t–keep–up all–”

“You guys are so loud, seriously, I can’t even begin to describe–”

“Alright, alright!” Youngho yelps, waving his hands at the space between them to dissipate the conversation neither of them wanted to have. Taeyong recognizes from the way Youngho’s lips are curling upwards that their little debate is over. For now, “I see your point.”

“Thanks,” Taeyong mutters. It isn’t like he didn’t understand relationships and how much effort it takes to be in one, he just doesn’t see it the way Youngho does, to a degree. “You should go soon,” he glances at the time on his phone, “you only have fifteen minutes to be ten minutes early.”

Youngho agrees, clearing his throat noisily. He straightens his shirt and tugs on the hem of his jeans, jumping on the spot to pull them up. After he reties his laces twice, Youngho fumbles to check his hair in the blurry aluminum aisle divider. Taeyong buries a scoff. He watches Youngho patiently, indifference muted, acknowledging Youngho’s nervousness. 

“Good?” Youngho asks, turning back to Taeyong, adjusting his shoulders and standing tall.

Taeyong caves, rolling his eyes, “You look the same as when we left the apartment thirty minutes ago.”

Youngho makes a face, then moves to check his hair once more. Taeyong wishes him a cursory good luck, waiting until Youngho’s safely out of the store before he takes his eyes off his giant mammoth of a best friend flouncing down the street. It’s when he’s alone and engulfed in silence that he notices the unacceptable number of snacks in his arms. Quietly, he returns a few, keeping only the chocolate bar and the small bag of sour cream potato chips, really hoping he won’t get too much of a stink-eye at the register.

“Just these?” The lady rings up Taeyong’s two measly purchases, “Do you need a bag?”

“No, thank you,” Taeyong mumbles, watching the prices pop up on the screen as he pats the pockets of his jeans for the familiar curve of his wallet. A little spark of panic ignites when he realizes that all four pockets are empty, sans a handful of receipts and a gum wrapper from two days ago. The lady stares dismissively at Taeyong, as if she isn’t surprised at his lack of organization. “Sorry,” he checks his pockets again. Empty. “Just–give me a second.”

He’s staring at his ratty sneakers, still digging through the back pockets of his jeans when a shadow looms from behind. His heart thuds heavily, anxiousness doubling with the realization that another customer is waiting on him now too. To pay ten dollars for two things worth five, no less. He checks his front pockets again, wishing money would grow from the threads there. 

_Great,_ his shoves his hands into his back pockets, coming up with nothing. _Great, great, great._

“Sorry,” Taeyong mutters again, to the cashier and to the figure behind him. With his head ducked low, he catches nothing from the boy an arm’s length from him, other than a white shirt tucked loosely into a pair of light wash jeans. He grapples for his phone, but stops himself before he can call Youngho to come back and pay for his snacks. He can’t risk Youngho being late for dinner, not after witnessing first-hand the frenzied state he’s in. 

Pained, Taeyong clears his throat and hides his phone away. “I’m sorry, I–my wallet–”

The lady is unamused. She taps her manicured nails impatiently against the counter, waiting for Taeyong to spell it out for her. He cringes internally; snacks have never brought him such suffering. Briefly, he feels a sting of betrayal. 

“I–” _don’t have money_ , he wants to say.

“I’ll get it,” is what he hears instead.

Taeyong’s jaw has no time to hit the ground because the boy is already stepping forward, unloading his own snacks onto the counter. Two packets of dried mangoes, a box of honey flavored candies meant for sore throats, and a bottle of water. They look out of place next to Taeyong’s chocolate and chips.

“You’ll pay for him as well?” The lady asks, surprise mirroring the one blatantly plastered across Taeyong’s face. 

The boy nods, reaching into his back pocket to retrieve a leather wallet, worn and cracking at the sides. 

“Wait, no–” Taeyong’s senses revive when the cashier scans the first packet of mangoes. “It’s okay, you really don’t have to pay–”

The rest of his protest dies in the back of his throat when he finally looks up at the stranger, standing at just about half a head taller. The distance between them now is a foot at best and Taeyong physically stops himself from taking a step back, because _oh my god_. 

He meets immediately with bright eyes and smooth skin, a tall nose, plump lips, and a slender jaw that his mind screams looks soft to touch. Taeyong’s senses zone the rest of the store out completely, vision homing in on the stranger before him. The rest of the world falls away into static. He can’t stop his eyes from scanning every bit of the boy’s features, words still lodged securely in his throat. The spark in his heart detonates, fireworks exploding in the velvet dark of his chest, body freezing under the unnerving gaze that pierces straight through him. It renders him stoned to the bone, limbs refusing to move even as the boy, in return, studies Taeyong too.

There’s something about his expression that tells Taeyong he doesn’t quite know what he’s doing either, wallet in hand and card in the other. His head is tilted downwards just the slightest, brows creasing gently, reflecting an emotion Taeyong doesn’t know how to translate. He shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other when the boy glances down at his empty hands, as though deciphering if Taeyong really did forget his wallet. 

“Whenever you’re ready,” the lady intones, motioning towards the payment terminal. She appears to be unaware of the bizarre tension suffocating Taeyong, but he figures in the moment after that she probably doesn’t care anyway.

The boy taps his card against the terminal. Taeyong catches the name printed in block letters, _Kim Doyoung_.

It’s almost natural–or instinctive, even–that Taeyong’s eyes dart from the card to the boy’s inner arm, veins prominent and oddly prepossessing, a faint purplish-blue against his fairness.

And in those two beats, he notices it–the soulmark.

It’s striking; glowing as brightly as Youngho’s did in Olives the second he doused Taeil in beer, as steadily as Yuta’s did when he finally turned the fifth corner on the second street after fifteen minutes of tracking where his soulmark was leading him to (–to Jaehyun, who was also frantically rubbing at his wrist, trying to understand the directions his own soulmark gave). More than just yellow, Kim Doyoung’s soulmark pulsed with an orange tinge to it, subtle, but positively _gold_ against the pale skin of his inner wrist. 

It’s enthralling to Taeyong. He can’t bear to look away. 

“Did you need a bag with these?”

“Yes, thank you.” Kim Doyoung doesn’t notice Taeyong’s inappropriate staring, slotting his card back into his wallet and sliding it into his pocket. “Two, please.”

The lady packs the items quickly and with good sense; dried mangoes, sweets, and water in one, chocolate and chips in the other. She hands it to Taeyong without a word, but thanks Kim Doyoung when she hands him his. Taeyong takes the paper bag robotically, rendered speechless by how the last two minutes just turned out, undecided if it’s reality or some warped dream he’s having. The bag is light in his hands, but something weighs heavy in his chest. The guilt of having his purchases paid for just like that, probably. 

“Have a nice evening,” the lady recites, an obvious call for them to leave.

Taeyong goes as asked, following Kim Doyoung back through the aisles and out towards the exit. He calculates his steps carefully, ambivalent, thinking hard on what he should say or do, or if he should even do anything at all. _I should thank him first,_ Taeyong settles, watching Kim Doyoung’s shoes squeak against linoleum. They’re well-worn, obvious from the threads sticking out at the sides and the smudges of dirt on the laces, but they’re still white and clean, nevertheless.

Kim Doyoung slows his pace when step out onto the pavement, finally turning to face Taeyong once more. 

“Thank you,” Taeyong says first, surprising himself when he hears his voice work. Kim Doyoung stares, waiting for something more, “For paying. If you could give me your number or your email–” Taeyong fumbles for his phone, bag hitting against his hip noisily, “I’ll pay you back as soon as I get home.”

A crow caws in the distance. It’s a little cold out from how it’d been raining showers all day, the harsh September winds biting through Taeyong’s jacket. He didn’t exactly think he’d be spending any time out on the sidewalks tonight.

Kim Doyoung is still staring at him. Not saying a word, not moving an inch. And as he continues to stare fixatedly, scrutinizing Taeyong’s every breath, Taeyong shrinks into himself, wondering what’s gotten into this guy. Did he want something more for helping Taeyong out? Did he expect Taeyong to refuse his offer at the cashier? Did he need a favor in return?

For a brief moment, as dramatic as could be, Taeyong fears for his life. 

“My number?” Kim Doyoung asks, in a way that makes Taeyong think he’s speaking in a completely different language. His eyes are brighter under the moonlight, if that were even possible. “You want my number?”

“Just so I can pay you back,” Taeyong says, though it comes out more like a question. He’s getting mixed up by Kim Doyoung’s confusion. “Sorry–I don’t have any cash or cards on me right now so I can’t,” he adds for good measure, “pay you back. Even though I want to.”

“That’s–okay. I offered to pay for you after all.”

Taeyong doesn’t know what to do. He hasn’t ever been in a situation like this. The logical part of his brain tells him to just thank Kim Doyoung once more and hurry along home, because _who is he anyway?_ There’s no telling what this boy wants with him.

“Well, then.” Taeyong finds himself unable to hold Kim Doyoung’s gaze, genuinely mystified at the way he seems to expect something _more_ from Taeyong. His dark eyes look to hold more than just anxiousness and uncertainty, lower lip trapped between his teeth, an angry red from how it’s being so harshly bitten. Taeyong disregards it, “Thank you.”

Half a step away is all it takes for Kim Doyoung to take two forward, “Wait.” His paper bag dangles from the crook of his elbow when he moves to hold his right arm over his chest, left hand securely around his wrist–his soulmark.

“This–” he starts, but doesn’t continue. His knuckles are white from where he’s clutching onto his wrist tightly. Taeyong didn’t know his mouth was open, but he closes it hastily when he registers how pale Kim Doyoung’s face is now, how it might be a little green even. His hair, coal-black, swishes over his eyes when he shakes his head, like he can’t understand Taeyong’s bewilderment.

Taeyong debates making a run for it.

“The mark.” Kim Doyoung whispers. His brows furrow together, perplexed by Taeyong’s silence, “The soulmark.”

Taeyong frowns. He can’t stop himself from asking, “What about it?”

That throws Kim Doyoung off entirely. He moves a step back this time, almost defending himself from Taeyong’s words. His arm remains on his chest.

“That’s not–” Taeyong, despite his intentions, listens to Kim Doyoung stumble over his words. It’s a quality to him, sincerity, Taeyong pinpoints, that makes him stay. He waits patiently for Kim Doyoung to eventually utter the words, “–isn’t yours?”

_Oh._

A hot wave of embarrassment surges through Taeyong. _Right, yes._ He should have pieced it together from the start, he should’ve picked up all the non-signs, he should’ve guessed as much. A multitude of emotions swarm him. He had waited ardently for this day in his younger years, as far back as his memories could possibly go, a day he had wished and hoped and dreamed would come. Not knowing if it ever would for him. There had been countless nights he spent dreaming up this exact scene, hours of lessons he missed out on because he was too busy staring out at the clouds, rehearsing the lines he wished and planned to say.

Of all the situations he’s thought of, Taeyong’s never imagined it to be like this.

Neither did he think he’d be rushing to answer, “I–I don’t know.”

Taeyong, in retrospect, does feel sorry for Kim Doyoung. He blanches at Taeyong’s exclamation, almost traumatized by the words hitting his ears. The confusion is replaced with discomfort, tortured at the revelation. He appears to be at a complete loss for words, realization dawning on him. A hundred other emotions flit across his face, none of them sticking around long enough for Taeyong to read. His gaze lift to the skies, understandably looking as though he’s asking the heavens if this is just a dirty trick they’ve decided to play on him.

Taeyong sympathizes. He knows that feeling all too well.

“I don’t have a soulmark.” Taeyong figures honesty would work best, especially since it seems Kim Doyoung isn’t too far off from collapsing to the sidewalk. He wouldn’t know how to explain it to the paramedics, should he need to call them.

But it’s a fact that Taeyong didn’t have a soulmark. He wasn’t born with an uncolored soulmark like everyone else, gray and waiting to be animated by some stroke of heaven’s luck. As much as he believed in it, he didn’t have a mark that could be colored in with gold; he never did and he’s convinced he never will. There’s no routine check-up he’s supposed to go for every five years to get things looked at, no special hybrid root-vegetable-and-kale he’s supposed to have for it to magically show up, no cracks on the floor or black cats he should avoid for him to wake up to a soulmark on his wrist the next morning–Lee Taeyong was born without a soulmark.

It’s not entirely uncommon either; that is, it’s common enough for people to know about individuals born without these little gray spots, but not at all enough for something to be done about it. No research nor experiments. What could be done? There isn’t anyone quite daring enough to trifle with fate.

Kim Doyoung regains a quarter of his senses, “Don’t have one?”

Taeyong eats the rock in his throat. He should’ve expected that it would come down to an awkward interrogation. He knows it, he truly does. What he doesn’t know is why he thought it should’ve gone any other way, why he thought it would.

Voiding his soul of emotion, he pushes the sleeves to his jacket up to just above his elbows, holding both his arms out with his palms faced towards the sky for Kim Doyoung to see.

A smooth expanse of skin, barring a pink scar from when Taeyong burned his arm against the brim of a rice cooker a week ago. There are no smudges of gray, not even a twinge of discoloration on his arms and wrists, and most definitely no soulmark. He does the same when Kim Doyoung instinctively leans close to get a better look, disappointed in himself when there isn’t anything there. For a few fleeting heartbeats, Taeyong finds his heart sinking.

_What if I did get my soulmark tonight? By some blessing the fates deem fit for me to receive? It would’ve meant I were just a late-bloomer, wouldn’t it?_

He snubs the thought. There isn’t science to say that it’s genetics, but Taeyong thinks it might be, somewhat. His maternal aunt didn’t have a soulmark either, until she did a day into her thirties. It was the size of a pearl and the color of asphalt. She woke up to the soulmark resting on her left wrist, and immediately she knew it was what it was. How could she not? She celebrated it for days, weeks, months. She couldn’t stop talking about it, couldn’t take her eyes of it, couldn’t wait to leave her house every morning with her heart full of hope.

But that didn’t matter at all. Nothing did–because the soulmark never colored in anyway.

It was devastating.

Taeyong lets his arms hang to the side, sleeves falling back down to hide himself away, as if he were meant to be hidden. It’s ridiculous how nervous he feels under the scrutiny of a stranger; a stranger with gorgeous eyes and perfect lips, with an air to him that makes Taeyong want to pull out a chair and spend the next four hours listening to whatever he has to say. Taeyong troubles at the thought of how he’s already guilty for not being what Kim Doyoung expected of a soulmate. Stories of grand first meetings and the smell of love in the air, surely Kim Doyoung had hoped for a day like that too. In no possible way would he expect to get Taeyong and his soulmark-free skin, and Taeyong is sorry for it.

“Good luck.” He swings the bag around, ready to say goodbye to whatever could’ve been. He shoves his hands into his pockets when Kim Doyoung says nothing. He sets on turning his heart into stone. If the fates are watching tonight, Taeyong is sure he hears them laughing at his misery.

It’s ironic, Taeyong thinks, how much he believes and trusts in the hands of fate, despite the obvious decision the higher powers have made to rob him of it. Talk and mention of soulmarks have always made Taeyong feel bittersweet; jealousy is up there somewhere too, but a big part of it is resignation. If true love was meant to be found through golds on their wrists, then Taeyong is never meant to find his. As a courtesy, he shouldn’t stand in the way of anyone finding theirs either.

Like a final taste he lets himself have, Taeyong lifts his eyes to meet Kim Doyoung’s once more, regretting it immediately. That look of _destroyed_ hope–it takes him back.

On his eighteenth birthday, Taeyong wished for his soulmark to appear. Wished to meet his soulmate at a theme park. By a brush of the shoulder in a crowded line or to a cast member handing out free popcorn, Taeyong wished and wished hard, blowing out the candles with a smile on his face, believing it would one day come true.

On his nineteenth birthday, he wished for his soulmark to appear. Wished to meet his soulmate at a café. Maybe it’d appear, color in for a cute barista or someone with a taste for hot chocolate. Maybe they’d be studying at one near campus, and Taeyong’d ducked in only to escape the pouring rain. A simple wish, and Taeyong wished and wished hard. He blew the candles out and wished once more–blanketed in the dark–for extra luck.

On his twentieth birthday, Taeyong wished not for his soulmark. Wished he would never meet his soulmate. He wished he would never meet anyone with a soulmark colored in for him. He wished and wished, not exactly knowing why, for that one birthday, his heart demanded repair. He didn’t want anything he’d seen in movies, in books, amongst family, amongst friends, in his thoughts, in his dreams. He didn’t want to deal with it at all. He decided that he didn’t want his soulmate to ever find him because he couldn’t do anything in return, he could never give as much as he’s given.

Taeyong laid in bed and thought it over, until the sun rose high to drench his room in gold.

For three years, Taeyong wished not.

Today, he understands. He does perfectly because the despair in Kim Doyoung’s eyes tells him everything. This is exactly what he didn’t want. Taeyong didn’t want to feel like an utter disappointment ten minutes into meeting his supposed soulmate. He didn’t want anyone–not just Kim Doyoung–to go through what he’s bringing to the table.

“Maybe it was someone else.”

Kim Doyoung speaks for what it feels like the first time in hours, “What?”

Taeyong breathes a little better. At least he didn’t shock Kim Doyoung into a state of oblivion, “The mark.” He pinches the seam of his jacket, “It could’ve been for someone else.”

It’s comical, the way Kim Doyoung swivels to look into the store, then back at Taeyong, and then back into the store again. Taeyong does the same, somewhat unsettled when he sees the only other person in there to be the lady behind the cashier. Kim Doyoung shakes his head, slowly, as if he’s been told clouds are made of cotton candy and rain’s honeyed syrup.

“Those things aren’t always accurate, you know?”

Kim Doyoung comes back to life, “But I’m–really sure.” He says it again, like he’s afraid Taeyong hadn’t heard, “I saw you from out here, and I walked in.” His voice quietens to a shy mumble, “I felt my soulmark–I _saw_ it color in.”

Restless, is what Taeyong feels. He doesn’t know–he doesn’t know _anything_ , this is the first time in his twenty-three years of living such a stranger is being this earnest with him. He doesn’t know if he should still step away. He has spent the last three years building up for this moment, making sure he doesn’t trap an innocent soul into this web of complexity he’s tried so hard to bury.

“It’s never happened before,” Kim Doyoung confesses. He takes a quick glance at his wrist, a renewed shine of vigor in his gaze, “But I’m sure it’s you.”

Taeyong startles at his adamancy. He winces when he tells Kim Doyoung again, with a push of urgency to have him understand, “I don’t _have_ a soulmark.”

Kim Doyoung falls silent. He takes more than a moment to think things over, arms finally relaxing to drop to his sides. Taeyong wants to laugh, knowing it’ll be full of nothing. He wants to give Kim Doyoung an out.

Soulmarks function first on compatibility. The notion of having just one of _The One_ comes from the practice that once a compatible soulmate is found, there isn’t a need to look for another. But there are always circumstances that a soulmark could color in again for the second, third, fourth time. It never will, until it does. It might. A chance.

If Taeyong stayed in bed like he planned to, maybe Doyoung’s soulmark would’ve colored in for someone else. It might, at some point. It might never again color as bright as it did for Taeyong, but it might get colored in again anyway.

“I know people who don’t have soulmarks,” Kim Doyoung chooses his words carefully. “They’re–they didn’t give up–they’re not _alone_.”

The word amplifies a thousand times over in Taeyong’s mind. _Alone_ , he echoes. _But what if they’re meant to be alone? Isn’t that why the fates denied them of their soulmark?_ Taeyong refuses to think about it, refuses to discuss it with a boy he’s just met, a boy who might be his soulmate, a boy so unlucky to have his soulmark color in for someone who doesn’t at all deserve it.

“Sorry,” Taeyong bites on the end of the apology. His body rejects the decision to turn Kim Doyoung away, it urges him to think again; he forces the desire away, “I have to go.”

“Wait–” for the second time this evening, Kim Doyoung asks. And Taeyong, for the second time this evening, listens. A knot forms in his stomach. Kim Doyoung returns to cradling his wrist to his chest, visibly plucking all of his courage to ask, “Can we at least have a coffee sometime?”

“A coffee?”

“Just to talk. About–this?”

Taeyong brings his hands together, fingers picking at the edges of the paper bag. He’s sure he doesn’t want to go through with this. There’s no way he could want this. He shouldn’t. Dodging the question, he asks, “Don’t you believe in fate?”

“I do.” Kim Doyoung blinks profusely, eyes misting over. “But my soulmark–it colored in for you,” his ears are red and so are his cheeks. Taeyong admits to himself that it’s a look he wouldn’t mind bothering himself with in the foreseeable future. “It has to mean something–it means something. To me.”

Taeyong’s knees fight to buckle at Kim Doyoung’s persistence. At his ardency. Superfluous and out of politeness, he asks, “What’s your name?”

“Kim Doyoung,” he’s told. “Doyoung.”

 _Doyoung_.

Taeyong sticks a hand out, forgetting completely how clammy it must feel when Doyoung takes it for the very first time. “Lee Taeyong,” he mumbles, tongue weird against his teeth, as if he’s mere seconds from forgetting his own name. He keeps his hand to Doyoung’s for three heartbeats exactly, breathing a small sigh when Doyoung lets go just as he does.

His cheeks fumes when Doyoung smiles, small and a little unsure. He brings a hand up to scratch purposelessly at his nape, “We should probably exchange numbers, right?”

They do, in a silence that Taeyong thanks isn’t as awkward as it could be. His hands are cold, fingers stammering over the clean screen of Doyoung’s phone. He takes a peek at the other contacts, finding it calmingly satisfying when he sees that they’re all properly registered with last names first and first names after, complete with what Taeyong recognizes as university course codes.

Thinking hard for an identifier, he saves his contact as, _Lee Taeyong (convenience store)_.

Doyoung hands him his phone back just as he hits _save_. There isn’t time for him to check what Doyoung’d entered for himself because their hands are brushing then, Doyoung’s fingertips ice against his. He watches Doyoung bite on his lip and avert his gaze, pulling his hand away with a sheepish look. It makes Taeyong dissolve into nothing.

“I’ll–message you. About coffee.”

“Okay,” Taeyong says, not knowing what else would suffice.

“It was nice meeting you,” Doyoung tucks his phone away. He smiles, and Taeyong curls his toes to stop his limbs from melting.

“You too,” Taeyong returns. He doesn’t know if _nice_ is an accurate enough word for it, but he can’t find it in himself to think about semantics.

Doyoung smiles once more, lips pressed together in a courteous manner, ducking his head when he turns the other way, shoulders up to his ears. Taeyong watches Doyoung’s back until it disappears behind the first corner, and, despite the blinding lights from the convenience store, leaves Taeyong shrouded in another kind of darkness.

He lets go of the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

\--

Yuta and Youngho buy pizza, soda, ice cream, and an entire chocolate fudge cake when Taeyong tells them the news. It’s the morning after that he sends an obligatory message to their chat group of three, texting with slow, sleep-addled thumbs while buried under the comfort of two blankets. He doesn’t expect his phone to explode with messages within the minute; Youngho with a stream of stickers and emojis that so accurately embodied his true self, Yuta with a string of texts asking for every single detail of last night’s encounter.

In under an hour, Taeyong hears Youngho unlock the front door with such force that it wouldn’t have made a difference if he kicked it down. There’s loud banging and clanging and slamming Taeyong isn’t ready to face on a Saturday morning, but he’s ripped of a choice when his door flies open, his best friends sauntering in, possessed in exuberance.

“Start at the very beginning,” Youngho demands immediately.

Yuta grins, “A very good place to start.”

They barge in bearing a large tub of ice cream (mint and chocolate, Taeyong’s favorite) and a single spoon, ignorant of the fact that it’s only a little past ten in the morning.

Taeyong sits up and takes the ice cream from Youngho’s outstretched hands. If he’s going to have to talk about his feelings, he’s going to need some sort of incentive to keep going. Peeling the plastic off, he lets Youngho settle cross-legged in his desk chair, and waits for Yuta to sprawl comfortably across the foot of the bed, situating a plushie under his head. Taeyong leaves the lid on his desk, and recounts yesterday evening.

He feels better, talking about it through mouthfuls of ice cream that can’t be all too healthy as a breakfast food. For the most part, Yuta and Youngho listen without interrupting as he pours all of last night’s thoughts into the air hanging above them. It’s no wonder, how comforting it is–the three of them have been stuck to the hip since the second year of university, navigating the last three years of finals, the overload of alcohol, burnouts, and soulmates (mainly Yuta’s). It’s effortless, their friendship. 

A full minute of dead air fills the room. Taeyong pays no mind to this, reaching for the lid and returning the tub to his desk before he gets to finishing the entirety of it, no matter how much he wants to. He settles back against his pillows, watching Yuta and Youngho evaluate Taeyong’s evening in silence. Neither of them seem to know what to say. He feels the nerves bubbling again, bringing a hand up to bite on his nails in hopes it’ll calm him; their reactions are unexpectedly grim.

Yuta breaks it, “Has he texted you?”

Taeyong stops chewing on his nail, eyes darting to where his phone is still hidden under a pillow. He hadn’t rounded enough nerves to check his messages. All he did was send one to Yuta and Youngho, then shoved it away quick when the red notification showed that he still had three unread messages in his inbox. He grabs it before Youngho can, already half off the bed, pressing the screen to his chest.

“Well?” Youngho asks, gleaming with delight. “What did he say?”

“I don’t know.” There’s a flurry of warmth, “I haven’t checked.”

“Why not?” Yuta pushes himself up on an elbow, “Check it now!”

Taeyong grumbles under his breath, entirely out of anxiousness, still unsure if he’s awake enough to deal with this. Sleep was rough the previous night; Taeyong couldn’t stop his thoughts from taking over control when he felt his phone vibrate thrice under his pillow. He had checked, it was two in the morning, and the contact name popped up, illuminating the tip of his nose, _Kim Doyoung._

It threw Taeyong into another whirlwind of emotions. The mere sight of his name.

“Read it,” Youngho encourages, looking two seconds away from ripping the phone out of Taeyong’s hands to do it himself.

The message pops up gray against white, _Hey, it’s Doyoung_. There’s a smiley at the end of it. Taeyong’s cheeks burn when it reminds him of Doyoung’s smile, teeth and gums and charming and all. _Would you be free Sunday? I know a nice brunch place near East 4th, if that’s okay._

“Brunch?” Youngho parrots.

Yuta is sitting up now, “He wants to go for _brunch_.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Taeyong reproves. “It’s just brunch.”

“Just brunch,” Yuta mocks with a grin so wide it touches his eyes. “There’s nothing _just_ about brunch.”

“I have to agree,” Youngho leans back, matching Yuta’s excitement. He folds his arms across his chest, “Brunch is never _just_ brunch.”

Taeyong ignores them, “Should I go?”

“Yes, obviously,” Yuta crawls over to pluck Taeyong’s phone out of his hands, reading the message for himself. “East 4th? Is he talking about Marmalade? That’s not all that far from my place, I think.”

“We should come with.” Youngho gets up to drop cheerfully onto Taeyong’s bed, disregarding the fact that it’s barely big enough to fit both Taeyong and Yuta. Taeyong scowls to have Youngho amend, “We’ll sit on the other end of the restaurant–you won’t even notice us!”

Yuta returns Taeyong his phone, “We should call for a table, I’m pretty sure it’s always packed on the weekends.” He fishes for his own, already tapping away, “Should we get a table for six? Is Taeil working any hours tomorrow?”

“I don’t think so,” Youngho taps his chin, rolling over to face the ceiling, “and his family’s out the entire day tomorrow for the fair, so we’d probably free for brunch.”

“The fair’s tomorrow? I completely forgot about that, but Jaehyun and I were planning to hang around the marketplace too, since there’s going to be that food fair. They always have the best desserts.”

“We should _all_ go together! It would be such a fun–”

Taeyong grabs the edge of his blanket and yanks roughly, nearly sending his blabbering best friends to the ground. They thrash around to regain balance, seizing the corner of the bed frame and Taeyong’s leg each lest their faces meet the floor.

“No one is going to brunch tomorrow,” Taeyong says with finality, forcing severity into it. Yuta and Youngho have never passed a chance to meddle with his life, and while Taeyong is grateful for the concern, he could live without them gawking at Doyoung over scrambled eggs and roasted potatoes. It’s not hard to imagine them both with coffee mugs pressed to their lips, hiding sneaky smiles while Jaehyun and Taeil traded defeated sighs. “I don’t even know if I’m going.”

“What.” Yuta shoots up, phone forgotten. “You can’t _not_ go, Yong.”

“Why not?” Taeyong tries not to sound like he’s twenty again, hellbent on avoiding anything remotely related to soulmates and their soulmarks. They’ve had this conversation before, one drunken night two weeks after Yuta found Jaehyun. It was three months into their friendship as a trio and Youngho had bought a case of Corona off Amazon for half-price. Needless to say, they finished the case that very night and greatly regretted it the morning after. “I made it clear that I don’t want anything to do with him and his soulmark.”

“His soulmark that colored in for you,” Youngho reminds, as if Taeyong’s memory needed refreshing. “And you agreed to a coffee. That’s hardly making things clear.”

“I only did because–” Taeyong hates that he falters to come up with a reason. Why _did_ he agree to coffee? Yuta asks this, hearing Taeyong’s thoughts. He reasons, “He said it meant something.”

Youngho blinks, “Is he not all that bright?”

“Of _course_ it meant something,” Yuta gives Taeyong no opportunity to get offended (he shouldn’t be offended on behalf of Doyoung anyway, he doesn’t even know Kim Doyoung). “It’s his soulmark coloring in, not a momentous bug bite you both miraculously discovered together.”

“But I shouldn’t have to go,” Taeyong argues. The blanket in his hands fails to bring him comfort. Rather, it begins to stifle him. “I don’t want to go.”

“Why not?” Yuta questions. It’s asked kindly, knowing Taeyong’s habit of shrinking back into his shell if they pushed an inch too hard. “Do you really think it didn’t color in for you?”

Taeyong considers it seriously. The only other living souls in that store were Youngho and the lady by the register. If Kim Doyoung’s soulmark colored in when he was right outside the store, supposedly brightening when he entered it, by process of elimination, it definitely _did_ color in for Taeyong.

Unless–Kim Doyoung’s soulmark colored in for Youngho.

“That’s impossible,” Youngho says, a little more edge to it than necessary. He lifts his arm to show them both his soulmark–it’s still the same tinge of gold Taeyong knows matches the one on Taeil’s wrist; it looks nothing like the one on Kim Doyoung’s, despite them being universally similar as soulmarks. “If it did, I would’ve felt something, but I didn’t. I didn’t feel anything at all.”

“It wouldn’t have for Youngho,” Yuta shifts to hide himself under Taeyong’s blanket, resting his head on Taeyong’s arm. “If he said it’s you, then it’s you.”

“How would he know?”

“He just does.”

“You can’t seriously expect me to just take your word and believe that.”

“He would know,” Youngho hums. He shoots Taeyong a hopeful smile, lopsided and a little sympathetic, if that were possible in a smile. “He would have felt it, and you would’ve been the only thing that made sense. Even if you weren’t the first thing he saw, it wouldn’t have mattered. He would know if it colored in for you.”

Taeyong exhales loudly.

“At least meet with the guy.” Yuta pats his torso twice, his act of persuasion. “We know what you think about soulmarks and what you think it _has_ to mean to you _._ We don’t fault you for it, Yong.”

Youngho continues for him, “He could be the one that changes your mind.”

_Change my–_

Yuta notes, “It really wouldn’t be the end of the world if you met him again, would it?”

To an extent, Taeyong agrees. There really isn’t any harm that could come from meeting Kim Doyoung once more. He’s already decided that he isn’t going to impose on Kim Doyoung and his soulmark. A second meeting would simply serve to tie up loose ends. An opportunity for Taeyong to properly convey his apologies, for him to explain, very briefly, his resolution to gift Kim Doyoung another chance at finding a more suitable soulmate. Preferably one with a soulmark that could match his prettily.

Yuta and Youngho touch the subject no more, tumbling out of bed when their stomachs grumble for lunch. They leave him to mull it over himself, having given him all their honest thoughts on the matter. It’s deliberate when they give him literal space, retreating back out into the living room to discuss tomorrow’s festival. No matter how much they insisted on interfering, as loud as their voices can carry, they don’t ever go too far, always ultimately leaving final decisions in Taeyong’s hands.

 _Okay_ , he sends to Kim Doyoung. _Brunch sounds fine_.

Taeyong shudders from an act so mundane, watching the bubble turn blue. He swings his legs off the bed, feet tickled by the carpeted floor when his phone buzzes twice in succession.

 _Great,_ Another smiley, another reminder of Doyoung’s gummed smile. _I’ll see you at eleven!_

The carpet feels like quicksand under him.

\--

Taeyong is early to East 4th. He waits on the corner of 4th and Benjamin as planned, hands itching in the pockets of his pullover. The winds are strong, but the sun is out today, deeming it the perfect weather for jeans. He shrugged on his favorite pair this morning, black and ripped below the knees, eased by the comfortable snugness of it. Taeyong thinks absentmindedly about how nice it would be to sit on a park bench and breathe it all in. He would if he had the time. Or the peace of mind to.

He taps his foot against the sidewalk, wishing offhandedly he was listening to music. He did have on a pair of headphones, but nothing plays; he didn’t want to give Doyoung the advantage of creeping up on him.

 _Not that I think he’s a creep_ , Taeyong corrects. _I’d just best be on guard._

While waiting, Taeyong runs through the mental script he spent all night rehearsing. Essentially the infamous spiel of _It’s not you, it’s me_ , but in kinder words and in a way he hopes isn’t at all condescending. He would hate to leave things on a bad note. It feels not unlike a break-up–just without the relationship, like they so conveniently skipped over it entirely. Taeyong doesn’t know what he should make of it.

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

 _Sorry_ , the message reads. _Got lost on the subway. Be there in five!_

“Lost,” Taeyong murmurs to himself. _Is he not from here?_

It sparks a kind of curiosity he hasn’t felt in a while. He starts to wonder about Doyoung, interested now in the boy that holds a soulmark colored in for him (Yuta and Youngho insisted over yesterday’s dinner that they are absolutely sure of this; Taeyong, after much convincing, decided that he had no reason to doubt them). Though, there didn’t seem to be a particular reason for his curiosity, he deduces, kicking against a crack on the ground. A pebble skips twice and falls into a storm drain. He simply wanted to know more about Doyoung.

_Did he live far from 4th? Is he not familiar with the city?_

_That’s okay,_ he texts back. He battles asking if Doyoung needed help to find the corner he’s on. _Take your time._

And when Doyoung arrives, he’s a little winded, hair mussed from having jogged the distance, Taeyong believes. He’s in a simple knit sweater, a shade of navy blue that goes remarkably well with his complexion, and a pair of jeans that look a little loose on him. On his feet are the same pair of shoes from two evenings before.

“Hi,” Doyoung says, breathing heavily. Taeyong’s lip twitches; the station is only a block away. “Sorry, I didn’t realize I was on a train going uptown.”

“That’s okay.” Taeyong plucks his headphones out and twirls them up neatly. He waits for Doyoung to catch his breath, watching a flush bloom over Doyoung’s ears and around the base of his neck. Taeyong tries not to sound like he’s prying, “Are you… not from here?”

Doyoung squares his shoulders. If he were taken aback, it’s hidden well under an embarrassed laugh, “Is it that obvious?”

Taeyong’s body reacts oddly to Doyoung, skin prickling up his arms and down his back. “No, no, I was just–wondering.” He adds reassuringly, “The subway lines aren’t exactly user-friendly.”

His laugh is sweet to Taeyong ears. “The streets are a little confusing for me still. I’m from northside, two states away.” He starts towards Marmalade and Taeyong follows, “I transferred over last month to finish my final year of university here.”

 _That makes sense_. “Central State University?”

Doyoung nods.

“I graduated from CSU too,” Taeyong says, matching Doyoung’s steps. “Majored in music technology.”

“Music technology,” Doyoung sounds fascinated. They turn a corner together, “I major in literature, and I graduate next Spring. Or well, at least I hope I do.”

Taeyong stores it in a mental folder. “Final year,” he remembers his own being Redbull-fueled and packed with energy bars. “Is it any different from university back home?”

“Yes and no.” Taeyong notices Doyoung’s habit of pressing his tongue to his front teeth when he’s thinking, “Campus back home was bigger. And CSU’s in the middle of the city, so there aren’t a lot of lawns since we’re surrounded by office buildings. Though, recitations are a lot smaller here, which is great. I don’t think I ever had the chance to speak to any of my professors back home.”

Taeyong spots the sign to Marmalade, “CSU’s pretty invested in keeping the student-teacher ratio low.”

“Oh!” Doyoung adds like an afterthought, “And the food here’s a lot better. I could eat those pastrami sandwiches from that deli on West 3rd everyday.”

“Everyday?”

“Not _every_ day.” Doyoung looks sheepish, “I still haven’t found that many food spots around campus, I guess.”

“If you like sandwiches, Building 75 has a café on the second floor that makes really good ones,” Taeyong mentally sifts through the list of cafés and snack bars in his mind. After four years and thousands of overpriced meals, knowing the best places on campus isn’t too difficult a task. “And the diner on the corner of East 8th? It’s a walk, but they have bigger servings of fries over the places on campus, especially the one in the main food hall. They pack the cartons in a way that makes you think it’s full when it’s really not.”

Doyoung listens like he’s being told secrets that’ve been handed down generations. “I wish they had stuff like this in CSU handbook.”

Taeyong breaks into a small smile, “Like where to get good fries?”

“The livelihood of broke college students, really.”

“Well, I’m no handbook, but if you ever wanted more tips–” Taeyong stops short. _You could always ask me_. Did he really mean that? _No,_ no. This is the last time he’s meeting with Kim Doyoung. That’s it. There’s no reason to meet for a third time. He’s here to tie up loose ends, that’s all. Coughing, “There are a lot of forums online you could check out.

Doyoung tongue peeks out again, pink between his lips. He doesn’t seem to notice Taeyong’s frown, taking a larger stride when the teal door to Marmalade is within reach. He grabs the handle, holding it out for Taeyong to step through first. Taeyong turns to say _thanks_ , but it dies in the back of his throat when his eyes catch Doyoung’s soulmark, still gold and resting pretty on Doyoung’s wrist.

It’s like a wedding band, if Taeyong had to put it up for comparison. They don’t usually attract much attention. They’re gold, or silver or platinum, and they sit snugly around a ring finger. Their owners go about their daily errands without a hitch; washing dishes, putting clothes away, typing away at a keyboard. It isn’t something to be noticed. Though soulmarks remain unrivaled, when wedding bands catch light, they glow bright to steal all attention around it. Whenever that ring-clad hand is waving one goodbye or of dismissal, it’s hard to _un_ notice a wedding band.

Like how it’s hard to unnotice a soulmark.

They sit in the middle of a restaurant, amongst families and rushing waiters. It’s hardly the place for a serious conversation on soulmates and soulmarks and _I don’t know if I should see you again_ , but Taeyong can’t complain. If Doyoung hadn’t called to book a table (like Yuta predicted), they would’ve had to wait a long forty-five minutes for a table for two.

Taeyong doesn’t catch her name, but their waiter is friendly, bringing them glasses of warm water and menus with a promise to return shortly. They look through it in silence, Taeyong mainly because the list of choices is unreadably long; waffles, pancakes, eggs (scrambled, boiled, poached, half-boiled), chicken, beef, salads, he isn’t sure if he’s ever seen a menu quite this comprehensive.

Doyoung decides on _poached eggs on toast with a side of mushrooms and hash browns_. Taeyong drags his thumb against the menu and counts to six, stopping perfectly at _rosewater pancakes with sweet berries and honey_.

“So,” Doyoung says, just as the waitress collects the menus with their orders committed to memory. Taeyong picks up his glass and takes a timid sip. “Do you work in the city?”

Taeyong blinks. He’d expected Doyoung to dive straight into the purpose of their meeting here today, not continue their little round of small talk. A part of him bursts into unbridled joy. Soulmate or not, he _did_ find it easy to talk to Doyoung. No awkward pauses or moments where he thought to think of what to say. Maybe it’s knowing, somewhere in the back of his mind, that it didn’t matter what he said today anyway, he wouldn’t be seeing Kim Doyoung again after this.

“Uptown,” Taeyong answers. He didn’t think he’d be sharing this much with Doyoung, for what would be the point, but he does anyway. As if he’s hoping Doyoung would trade information about himself too, things about him Taeyong could keep in his mental folder. He just wanted to _know_. “With a small recording agency.”

Doyoung’s ears perk up, “A recording agency? Do you ever get to meet famous people?”

“Not exactly,” Taeyong sets the glass down. “There aren’t many clients, to be honest, but it was a job one of my professors recommended me for and I figured to take it as a stepping stone.”

“Oh,” Doyoung fiddles with the fork on his napkin. His fingers look soft and slender, unlike Taeyong’s, bony and unattractive. Not that Taeyong thought Doyoung’s hands were attractive because no. _No_ , he didn’t think that at all. “How long have you been with them?”

Taeyong takes a moment to recall, “Less than a year, probably. I started working with them a week or so after I graduated.”

“That’s pretty amazing.” Taeyong’s ears warm at the compliment. Doyoung picks his fork up, playing with the handle, “To get a job so quick after graduating, I mean.”

“And you?” Taeyong leans back into soft cushions, steeling himself to keep his eyes on Doyoung. The boy didn’t look at him much anyway, too focused on staring at a fork or the fake plant on their table. Taeyong takes the chance to study the curve of Doyoung’s cheeks, the smooth line of his jaw, the cherry-pink of his lips. Pinching himself on the arm, Taeyong ignores how wrong it is for him to be staring at Kim Doyoung’s lips. “Are you thinking of getting a job here after you graduate?”

Doyoung doesn’t answer immediately. He thinks, tongue darting out, considering the question carefully. Alarm bells ring in Taeyong’s head, _did I touch on a sensitive topic?_ He opens his mouth to suggest a change of subject when Doyoung sets the fork back down, speaking slow, “I didn’t think of staying.”

Taeyong talks to Doyoung’s crown, “Oh. But you’ve changed your mind?”

Doyoung hesitates before looking up. His expression crosses one Taeyong remembers from two nights ago, the one that makes Taeyong feel like he should know what Doyoung’s trying to say without having him say it, like he wants Taeyong to understand him without words. A skill Taeyong thinks he’d like to possess. In another life, maybe.

“I don’t know.” Doyoung pauses for a while, “It’s something I’ve been thinking about lately.”

“Most people I know do,” Taeyong says, hoping it would give Doyoung some sort of direction. Though, most people he knew that stayed were business and media students. He didn’t exactly know anyone that studied literature. “Just for a couple of years, since the opportunities are better here in the city.”

Doyoung chews on his lower lip. “Right,” he murmurs, after another moment of silence, like he’s waiting for Taeyong to say more. He picks the fork back up again, “Did you grow up here?”

Taeyong doesn’t mind the change of topic, “Yeah. Went to a high school three blocks from here.”

“A city kid,” Doyoung notes. He says it without malice, smiling wryly. “Have you got any siblings?”

Taeyong nods, “A sister. She lives across the river with her boyfriend.”

“I’ve got a brother,” Doyoung hums, twisting the fork around. His soulmark comes into Taeyong’s view again, near matching the shade of the fake, golden-yellow marigold on their table. Taeyong averts his attention back to Doyoung’s hands. “He graduated from CSU a few years ago and he was offered a job at a firm here–but he rejected them and came home instead.”

Their food arrives then, Doyoung’s toast and eggs and Taeyong’s stack of pancakes. Its appearance lives up to the five-star rating on Google and Taeyong forgets their conversation in favor of digging in. He didn’t realize how hungry he’d been, having rejected Youngho’s offer of cereal (“If I put it in the bowl, it’s considered a meal I made.”) before he left in the morning, saving his appetite for brunch, too nervous to be eating. He savors the first bite of fluffy pancakes and raspberry sauce.

And it’s when he’s already finished with the first of three pancakes that he notices Doyoung watching him. Out of reflex, Taeyong reaches for a napkin, bringing it up to his mouth to rid any traces of raspberry, thinking there to be some sort of embarrassing splatter on his face. Doyoung blinks twice. He looks back down at his own plate, swallowing thickly. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and Taeyong knows _, he’s thinking again._

Taeyong lowers his eyes, desperately trying to calm his racing heart.

“Do you want to try some?” Taeyong asks, albeit belatedly. He should’ve asked before engulfing that whole first pancake like a savage animal. Doyoung refuses politely but Taeyong’s already cutting him a slice with two berries on top. He motions for Doyoung to move his plate a little closer, frowning when the younger boy shakes his head. “It’s _really_ good,” he sing-songs.

Doyoung makes a face, will buckling under Taeyong’s gaze. He lifts his plate for Taeyong to leave the pancake triangle on the side. “Here,” Doyoung says in turn, halving a hash brown and maneuvering it quickly to a syrup-less corner of Taeyong’s plate. “A trade.”

Taeyong accepts it with a satisfied grin, almost sending himself into cardiac arrest when Doyoung does the same. His eyes crinkle at the corners, beaming wide at Taeyong in a way so virtuous that Taeyong vows to ingrain it to his memory. He catches himself wondering about what it would be like, watching Doyoung smile over a rainbow they’d spotted together in the sky, over scoring half-off Tupperware in a grocery store, over luckily catching reruns of his favorite show on cable. Taeyong didn’t know if Doyoung liked rainbows or got excited over Tupperwares or watched cable TV, but his mind runs wild anyway.

He couldn’t imagine what it would be like, getting to see Kim Doyoung’s smile every day.

It’s scarily intoxicating.

Taeyong doesn’t think about it for the rest of brunch. He focuses instead on asking Doyoung about how the move has been. Doyoung answers between bites, rolling easily with Taeyong’s questions. He tells Taeyong about the past month–how he drove from his hometown in a worn-down Corolla with rusted handles and a backseat full of books he really didn’t need to bring over (on his own, despite his brother’s offer to help him out); how he met his roommate (an exchange student who went by Kun) and how they’ve been working on a chore schedule (“But at least he’s clean,” Doyoung sounded thankful. “The last time I had a roommate was in elementary school. It was my brother and he was adamant on eating chips in bed. I had the bottom bunk. That didn’t work out well.”); how he’s been slowly adjusting to the change of classes and environment, even to the strange twinge of loneliness he didn’t think he’d feel, taking weekends alone to familiarize himself with the streets and agreeably confusing subway lines.

“I can’t say it’s been working though,” Doyoung says, biting into his last mouthful of hash brown. Taeyong noticed he’d left it to the corner halfway through the meal, saving it for last. _Cute_. “Since I got lost this morning.”

Taeyong swirls the remnants of berry syrup with the tip of his fork, “I wouldn’t be discouraged. I know someone who took the wrong train downtown in his fourth year living here. He didn’t realize it until he was two hours out.”

Doyoung balks, “Two hours?”

“It was an express service.” Taeyong grins, remembering how Yuta had called him, whispering frantically about how he’d fallen asleep, waking up to a station that resembled none he’s ever seen. He’d taken a train to a neighboring _state_. “His boyfriend went to get him,” Taeyong reassures, watching Doyoung’s expression twist into one of concern. Jaehyun had skipped his student government meeting–he was the senator to his faculty then, the Institute of Performing Arts–and hopped on the next train out to collect Yuta from a station too far away. “I think they stayed the night,” Taeyong purses his lips. It’d been two years ago; the details are hazy to him. “It was pretty late by the time Jaehyun got there, so I guess they made a trip out of it.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, so don’t worry about getting lost,” Taeyong shrugs. “You’ll get the hang of it soon enough.”

Doyoung fidgets in his seat. “And your friends–are they?”

Taeyong stops himself from asking, _Are they what?_ when Doyoung glances down at his wrist. He jerks his head away, abashed at being caught. It’s an action so minuscule, but Taeyong notices it anyway. He notices too many things about Kim Doyoung.

“Yeah.” Taeyong stares at the potted plant on their table. It’s a small marigold, a pretty yellow-orange. “They’re soulmates.”

Their waitress comes by the table with the bill in hand, saving Taeyong the pain of addressing the look–of what he thinks–is utmost discomfort gracing Doyoung’s features. She leaves them to scuffle over who should pay, oblivious that her simple presence managed to allay the air around them that’d begun to pull taut.

Taeyong reaches for his wallet. He reminded himself at least a hundred times over this morning to grab it off his desk.

Doyoung shakes his head, “I’ll pay.”

“I still owe you for those chocolates at the store,” Taeyong frowns. “And the chips.”

“It’s okay,” Doyoung picks up the mini wooden clipboard holding the bill before Taeyong can, fingers deft. “I offered to.”

“And I’m declining.” Taeyong plucks the clipboard out of Doyoung’s hands. “And I’m older, so I have the final say.”

Doyoung juts out his lower lip, “How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

“That’s only a year difference!”

Taeyong feigns a smug smile, “I’ll be using those privileges now, thank you.”

“But–I asked you out.”

Taeyong nearly drops his wallet to the floor, along with his jaw. He didn’t exactly put a label to what this brunch was going to mean to him, but is that what Doyoung thought? That it was a _date_? The plastic sheen of his credit card catches on the hanging lights and Taeyong shoves the thought on the back-burner. Their waitress returns with a handheld terminal and Taeyong tips her kindly.

“I can’t believe you paid,” Doyoung grumbles. He still holds the teal door open for Taeyong when they leave, and Taeyong smiles unapologetically at his grimace. “At least let me pay for my half?”

“Nope.” Taeyong says, “Not a chance.” He breathes deeply, loving the smell of fresh air and the cool of it spreading in his chest. It’s too good a day for him to go home, to end it so early. He watches a pigeon waddle past, _And we haven’t talked about… us._ The sole reason Taeyong believes he came for this brunch, to straighten things out with Kim Doyoung, but it’s already been an hour and then some and all he’s learnt is just _more_ of Doyoung.

Thankfully, Doyoung seems to be on the same page. “Would you like to–should we grab a coffee?”

“Do you have anywhere in mind?”

Doyoung looks down the street, “Not really.” And when Taeyong mentions a place a few blocks east, asking if he’s ever heard of it, Doyoung shakes his head and smiles, “Lead the way.”

This time, he lets Doyoung pay.

“Thank you,” Taeyong says. Doyoung tucks his tattered wallet into his back pocket, accepting his thanks with a pleased smile. They sidestep to the adjacent window in the wall to wait for their orders–Doyoung’s latte and Taeyong’s hot chocolate. “Even though you really didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.” Doyoung says it to himself, reaching out to touch the rusty-red brick walls in subdued fascination. Taeyong follows his wrist–soulmark–like a cat with a laser pen. “And it’s nothing compared to brunch.”

Taeyong rolls his eyes, “Are you planning on keeping score?”

Doyoung lets his hand drop from where he was inspecting the natural indents on the wall, “Yeah.” He looks down at his hands, “I’ll definitely be paying the next time.”

It jars Taeyong. Now they _have_ to talk about it. His chest constricts marginally, but it’s enough to weaken his breathing. His lungs slam furiously into his spine when Doyoung raises his head, eyes shining, unwavering. The knot in Taeyong’s stomach–the one from two nights ago–returns, and Taeyong searches Doyoung’s eyes. He can’t look away. Doyoung’s lips part, just slightly.

Taeyong feels a pull in his stomach stubbornly trying to drag him forward.

“A latte and a hot chocolate!”

Doyoung shuffles away to pick their orders up. They come in white cardboard cups with pink sleeves, and Doyoung hands Taeyong the one with chocolate sprinkles pressed up under the cap. Moving in tandem, Taeyong lets Doyoung pick one of the many outdoor tables. He chooses the one closest to the main street, away from the flurry of pedestrians on the sidewalk. Taeyong takes the seat across from Doyoung, and waits.

But Doyoung doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t touch his drink either, concentrated instead on tracing concentric circles around his soulmark with the pad of his thumb. It unsettles Taeyong, watching Doyoung grow increasingly anxious with every second of silence that passes between them. His thumb starts to move on its own accord, mimicking Doyoung to trace circles into the sleeve of his cup.

He isn’t sure if they’ve been sitting at the table for hours or days or weeks when Doyoung eventually breaks the standstill air. He moves to hide his hands under the table, “I called my brother that night.” His eyes are trained to the lid of his coffee cup, set on addressing it instead of Taeyong. “When my soulmark colored in.”

Taeyong chews on the inside of his cheek.

“I told him–” Doyoung fidgets, and Taeyong knows he’s still caressing the soft glow of his soulmark. He speaks haltingly, “I asked if I could’ve been wrong, being so sure that my soulmark colored in for you. I told him–that you didn’t have a–” he mumbles, sheepish, “–that just my soulmark colored in. But I was still–I didn’t want to think that it did for anyone else.”

Taeyong’s skin bursts into flames. Heat from his feet rises to up his legs and spine, shooting out to his fingertips, across his back, to the tips of his ears, to the top of his head. Pressure builds in every vein coursing through him, squeezing him so tight that he feels a dull ache in his bones. His hands remain cold against his drink.

“What did he say?” Taeyong whispers, because anything louder than that would’ve been far too ambitious.

Doyoung licks his lips and exhales through his nose, “That it was impossible.”

 _Impossible_.

“For me to be wrong,” Doyoung refines. “He said it’s how soulmarks work. That if it colored in, you wouldn’t– _couldn’t_ –rest until you found who it colored in for. And once you did find them… you’d know.”

_You would’ve been the only thing that made sense_

Taeyong releases the cup and pushes his knees up to his chest like an extra layer of protection. Maybe if his legs were in the way, his stupid heart wouldn’t be able to so easily fight through his chest to climb straight into Kim Doyoung’s open arms. He hugs himself close, knowing how inappropriate it might look for him to be curling up like a four-year-old, but he doesn’t _care_. He’s going to lose it if he had to listen Kim Doyoung speak and not have anything to ground himself to.

Silence returns. Taeyong gives up on repressing his anxiousness, bringing a thumb up to his lips, nibbling on the nail. Doyoung remains in his rigid position, half-hunched over to stare at his latte, moving only when a particularly noisy car zooms past them. He lifts his eyes apprehensively, cheeks losing its supple quality, tightening over the line of his jaw. His hands return to the table, clasped tightly together, knuckles white with his fingers interweaved.

Taeyong tucks his hand away when he realizes Doyoung isn’t planning on saying more. He tries not to shrink under Doyoung’s gaze–steady, firm, nothing else. It isn’t one that’s telling Taeyong that he needs to stay, it isn’t one that’s telling him Doyoung _wanted_ him to stay, it isn’t like that at all. The way Kim Doyoung is staring at him–Taeyong doesn’t know what to make of it.

“I don’t know.”

Doyoung sits up in his seat, “What?”

Taeyong hooks his ankles together, hands sweating spots into his jeans, “I don’t know what to say.”

“That’s fair,” Doyoung says, laughing nervously. He didn’t look like he wanted to be laughing. “I wouldn’t know what to say either.”

Taeyong steels his heart, preparing to recite last night’s script, “It’s my fault. I don’t know how to explain it without–I just think… I think you’d be better off–waiting for your soulmark to color in again. For someone else.”

Doyoung frowns, “I’d be better off?”

Taeyong nods slowly, inwardly reiterating his words back to himself.

“What do you–mean by that?” Doyoung is smart, Taeyong realizes. So very smart and dangerously quick-witted, picking up things Taeyong’s trying to hold on to. “That _I_ would be better off?”

“I mean,” Taeyong finds his throat unbearably dry. “I think it’d be easier, if you found someone else. Another person–a soulmate that would have a–you know, a soulmark that could match yours.”

Doyoung’s brows pinch together, “Do you think that’s why we won’t work out?”

 _We_. Taeyong has trouble breathing. He’s not ready to talk about this. “I don’t know.”

Doyoung opens his mouth, looking ready to argue with Taeyong’s useless answers, but he clamps his mouth shut. He turns to look down at his latte, falling silent. Taeyong is contrite, almost remorseful, at how sour things are turning. He picks up his drink, taking a sip of lukewarm chocolate. It does nothing to ease the unrest in his gut–in his chest (not at all his heart, no).

“I’m sorry.” Doyoung’s laughing again. This time, there’s a little more sincerity in it, lacking the agitation from earlier. In its place, resignation. “I shouldn’t–be arguing with your decision.”

Something plunges into Taeyong’s chest, grabbing his heart in a wrenching grip. It leaves a gaping hole, ribs broken, skin torn. He refuses to succumb to the pain; this _pain_. Why does it hurt? He doesn’t know Kim Doyoung. He doesn’t have any relation to Kim Doyoung. He doesn’t _want_ anything to do with Kim Doyoung.

Did he?

It didn’t make sense for it to hurt. For it to hurt to think that Doyoung could actually leave this table in the next minute, in the next second, and Taeyong would never see him again. For it to hurt, hearing his decision repeated back to him, as if he hadn’t spent the last day gearing up for this very moment. For it to hurt, it didn’t make sense at all.

But it did hurt and it made perfect sense.

“Thanks for meeting me,” Doyoung says, smiling gently. Taeyong loses feeling in his arms, his lungs burning angrily when the recognizable sear of pressure pricks at his eyes. “I appreciate it,” Doyoung tells him. His hand curls around his latte, and Taeyong wants to jump forward to stop him. Something innate tells him not to let Doyoung leave, _Wait–don’t go_. “I’ll–”

“Why did you ask me out?”

Doyoung stuns at the question. Taeyong blanches at the tone.

“I–that’s not–” Taeyong releases his legs and plants his feet on the ground. He can’t phrase the question without sounding completely self-absorbed, “I–I can’t help wondering, why did you?”

Doyoung releases the hold on his cup. The hold around Taeyong’s heart barely loosens its gut-wrenching grip, forcing him to cling onto Doyoung’s every word, “My soulmark colored in for you.” Taeyong flips that phrase over and over in his mind, _my soulmark colored in for you. My soulmark colored in. For you._ Doyoung’s nose twitches, “I don’t know what I expected. I guess–I could tell that you didn’t really want anything to do with me–”

The words aren’t meant to hurt, but it does anyway. The hole in Taeyong’s chest widens an inch.

“–but I still–I just wanted to get to know you.” Doyoung lips pull into a rueful smile. “And I had fun, even if it was only just over brunch.”

Taeyong eats his heart, “I had fun too.”

Doyoung’s smile faltes. His expression twists into a mixture of doubt and confusion.

“Sorry,” Taeyong apologizes on instinct. It must be the worst conversation Kim Doyoung’s ever been in, complicated and truly unnecessary. Taeyong should just let Doyoung leave, like he was going to. His hands clench and unclench on his thighs. Again, “I–sorry, I know this must be–confusing.”

“No, don’t–apologize. I don’t know what this is supposed to be either,” Doyoung’s hair bounces when he shakes his head. He takes a moment, or he gives Taeyong a moment, “Thought–I could ask you the same thing.”

Taeyong swallows.

“Why did you come today?”

Taeyong has never felt quite this dense, “Your soulmark–it colored in for me.”

Doyoung’s eyes flash, “And that means something to you?”

Taeyong walked right into that one. He cracks his knuckles, palm clammy. Doyoung doesn’t rush him for an answer, and it’s almost another five years before Taeyong regains confidence in his voice, “It does.”

“Then–”

“I just don’t know if it _should_.”

Doyoung doesn’t skip a beat, “Do you want it to?” He sits on the edge of his seat. Taeyong doesn’t understand how much Doyoung could want this; more than that, he doesn’t understand how much _he_ wanted it too. “Do you want it to mean something?”

Taeyong isn’t yet ready to answer that. “Do you?”

Doyoung licks his lips. Taeyong’s eyes follow the motion. “I–I think I do?” He draws his lower lip between his teeth, “I don’t know–how to explain how it feels.”

“Your soulmark?”

“Everything.” Taeyong fears the hope in his heart. “Everything feels–right.”

Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to come to brunch after all. Taeyong thinks he could most definitely live without Doyoung jerking on his heartstrings, no matter how much Kim Doyoung didn’t know he was doing it. Trying to convince himself that soulmates and soulmarks weren’t for him has never been harder. He was so ready to turn this down–whatever it is, all of it.

_He could be the one that changes your mind._

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Doyoung says, mistranslating Taeyong’s silence. “I don’t–I don’t really know what I should be doing either. Everyone keeps telling me different things, I–I don’t know who to listen to.”

Taeyong quietly wonders just how many people Doyoung’s confided in about his soulmate without a soulmark. He rubs his hands together, “What do _you_ want to do?”

Doyoung lets out a long exhale, rigidity leaving his body. He slumps against his seat, earnestly considering the question. “This,” he lifts his wrist for Taeyong, as if the soft glow of gold hasn’t already taken up most of Taeyong’s attention, “it means something to me. I don’t know what I should do, or if I even have to do anything, but I just know–I want to do something about it. Even if you don’t have a soulmark.”

Taeyong holds his breath. He wishes to stop breathing.

“That’s why I asked you out,” Doyoung gives him a half-smile. “I didn’t know what to do, but I–wanted to see you again.”

The ball is back in Taeyong’s court. In his peripheral, he sees a lady walking three sausage dogs (dachshunds, his mind corrects), but even that isn’t enough to tear his eyes from Doyoung. All caution is thrown into the wind; Yuta and Youngho’s voices melding together in the back of his mind. Doyoung toys with the cuffs on his sweater.

Taeyong represses the panic rising; the flood of thoughts that warn him for the future that would come, thoughts that plagues and sticks to the walls of his mind, thoughts reminding him that people without soulmarks aren’t entitled to find love–it’s not in their fate to. Everything he’s rushed to conclude about love, about finding it, about feeling it, about how he should turn away, about how he _has_ to–Doyoung tears it down. Doyoung is a new dawn, a sunrise twisting in the color of marigold. Kim Doyoung and his beautiful eyes and wonderful smile, his contagious laugh and his habit of licking his lips, his sarcastic jibs and eye-rolls that Taeyong could spot a mile away. He makes Taeyong think; about all the perceptions he’s harbored, all the boundaries he’s set, the walls he’s built.

How can one person break these in a day, Taeyong doesn’t know. All he knows is that Kim Doyoung does it without even trying.

“Okay.”

Doyoung stills, “Okay?”

Taeyong draws a shaky breath, understanding the gravity of the words on his tongue. Finding a soulmate changes a life. It changes two lives. On some level, it’s still fun and games and innocence and love–but this is Taeyong. This is Taeyong without a soulmark, and this is most definitely not written in his fate.

Did Kim Doyoung deserve to be tangled into this?

“I–okay.” Taeyong suffers at his own bluntness, at his selfishness. “If you wanted to meet again–after this–I would–that would be okay.”

“Do _you_ want to?” Doyoung asks, skepticism in his voice. Taeyong finds that reasonable; he’d just spend the last half hour convincing himself that he didn’t want this, whatever it is. The hesitance is clear, as if he thought Taeyong were simply agreeing to it on his behalf, “I–if it’s just because of what I said about–wanting to see you again–”

“I do.” Taeyong watches Doyoung’s mouth fall open. He’s about to backpedal, two seconds into his decision, but that grip around his heart returns. It hardens when Taeyong thinks about Kim Doyoung leaving without sparing him another glance, never to be seen again. It’s a feeling he’s never felt, it’s a feeling he doesn’t ever want to feel again. He nods firmly, “I want to see you again too.”

For a long while, Doyoung does nothing and Taeyong’s afraid he’s somehow turned the younger boy into stone. The air between them hangs in tension, alleviating only with Doyoung breaks into a smile, and that alone is enough.

For now, it’s enough.

\--

“You’re _where_?”

Taeyong jerks his phone away, grimacing at the sheer volume of Youngho’s screech. When he brings it back to his ear, Yuta’s voice floods the speakers, “Here? You’re here? With that soulmate boy?”

“I’m–” Taeyong wishes he’d never called them. Why did he think that would be a good idea, calling his two best friends on _their_ double-date? Clearly, the entire morning has thrown his rational compass off its balance. Beside him, Doyoung is busy reloading his metro card, squinting at the pixelated display of options. His tongue is sticking out again. “I’m about to take the subway down, but I just wanted to make sure–”

“With the boy?”

In the back, he hears Youngho supply, “Kim Doyoung!”

Taeyong winces, lowering the volume on his phone. Doyoung looked preoccupied enough with the ticketing machine, but he didn’t want to take any chances. “Stop _yelling_ ,” he hisses. He sidesteps away when a girl in pigtails gestures to the neighboring machine Taeyong’s standing by. He walks towards the turnstiles, whispering into the receiver, “You guys are going to freak him out!”

“Oh my _god_.” Yuta’s voice is distant when he says, “He’s bringing the boy here!” He’s back to an almost unbearable volume in the next second, “What happened? I thought you were going to ditch him! Did you change your mind?”

“I didn’t change–” Taeyong doesn’t finish the sentence. He _did_ change his mind. He changed his mind about Doyoung three hours ago. He changed his mind and now everything feels brand new to him. “I–I don’t know.”

Youngho bellows, “What did he say?”

“He said he doesn’t know–”

“What do you mean he doesn’t know! Did he change his mind?”

“ _Guys_.”

“Are they coming?” He hears Youngho ask, “Oh my god, are they coming to the fair?”

Taeyong’d briefly mentioned the annual fair and the fireworks show when they were roaming the streets after coffee, still trading menial facts about one another, simmering from the fervent conversation on _wants_ and _chances_. And when Doyoung mentioned having never been to a fair of that scale (“The ones in my hometown never had a Ferris wheel!”), Taeyong’s lips worked before his brain could, offering that they spend the rest of the date there instead.

 _Day_ , Taeyong corrects. _Not date_.

“Forget it,” he groans. “We’re not going anymore, I’m just going to say it got cancelled, or–”

“Bring him!” Yuta interjects, “We promise we won’t say anything, Yong–we really want to meet him!” The line crackles, “You know we’re only kidding, right? We’re not going to do anything to embarrass you, seriously–”

Youngho trills, “Can’t promise that!”

Yuta tells Youngho to shut up, “C’mon, Yong, this is your soulmate we’re talking about–we’re just excited to meet him!” He adds, “We might be more excited than you are to meet this Kim Doyoung.”

A shiver runs through Taeyong, remembering the cold crawl against his skin when he first caught sight of Doyoung this morning, his gummed smile and the nervous glint in his eyes– _I don’t think that could ever be possible_. From the corner of his eye, he sees Doyoung pull the ticket out of the machine, “I’ll text you when we get there.

“Oh my god,” he hears Yuta cackle to Youngho, just as they’re about to hang up, “He said _we_!”

Taeyong jabs the _end_ button ferociously, shoving his phone roughly into his jacket pocket.

“Is everything okay?” Doyoung asks.

“Yeah.” Taeyong turns to lead them through the turnstile, Doyoung following closely behind. They head towards the end of the platform, straying away from the crowd of tourists and rowdy high schoolers. Taeyong watches Doyoung observe the signages and the posters on the wall. He makes a timid noise, “It’s just that my friends are at the fair too.”

Doyoung tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans, like he isn’t sure what Taeyong wants him to make of it.

“We don’t have to meet them or anything.” Taeyong prattles on, “I just thought I’d give you a heads up–so it wouldn’t be all that terrifying if they come charging with a list of questions, which is, knowing them, something I truly believe they’d do.”

“I wouldn’t mind even if they did,” Doyoung smiles (and Taeyong wishes he’d stop because it’s making his heart do all sorts of flips). After a quiet pause, “Do they really have a list?”

Taeyong scrunches his nose, “Probably. They were–very excited when I told them about you.”

That makes the smile on Doyoung’s face stretch wide, “You told people about me?”

It hadn’t occurred to Taeyong that that should be surprising. He looks away, “I told you–it mattered to me.”

Doyoung doesn’t say anything to that, and Taeyong is grateful. The silence between them is pleasant; Taeyong spends the next minute picking at the sleeves of his jacket and Doyoung spends it studying a tattered poster of _The Bohemian Rhapsody,_ with a smile on his face that can’t possibly be because of a sleeveless Rami Malek. Taeyong closes his eyes and wills his noisy heart to calm down at how pleased it made Doyoung to know that his soulmark mattered to Taeyong.

Of course it mattered.

The train comes by then, old and clunky.

“Nine stops,” he tells Doyoung, who’d strayed from the handrails in the car to try and read the map above the row of seats. He situates himself safely between a standing pole and a handle, knowing he’s rubbish when it comes to balance. Doyoung doesn’t seem to notice, holding onto the loop beside Taeyong’s.

They get by two stops when a seat frees up. Taeyong jerks his chin towards it, pulling Doyoung’s attention away from the advertisements playing on the crappy monitor above their heads, “We have a pretty long way to go.”

Doyoung looks over his shoulder briefly. “It’s okay,” he shakes his head, tuning his focus back to the monitor. “I’d rather stand.”

Taeyong convinces himself that he’s hallucinating when he sees Doyoung shuffles a little closer. His cheeks flare with heat, realizing in those three seconds how close his face is to Doyoung’s. While Doyoung doesn’t tower over him like Youngho does, he most definitely stands taller than Taeyong–just enough for the lower half of his face to be directly at Taeyong’s eye-line.

 _Great_. He swallows thickly, feeling perverse at the way he’s practically ogling at Doyoung’s lips. He thinks it’s surreal how captivating they are up-close, lower lip plush to a pout, pink and existing purely to wreak havoc on his feelings, he’s sure.

Taeyong clears his throat weakly, edging back from Doyoung to try and breathe without inhaling the intoxicating smell of Doyoung’s skin and cologne and whatever it is that makes him really want to jump out the subway car. He unhooks his right hand from the handle to grab onto the standing pole but the train jerks backwards violently, and Taeyong decides here and now that he hates the fates.

Doyoung’s hand shoots out to grab his arm, grip firm. A few passengers turn their way, but Doyoung pays them no mind. When Taeyong staggers less like a newborn giraffe, Doyoung’s loosens his grip, hand dropping to circle around Taeyong’s wrist instead. It’s cool against his skin, fingers pressing gently into where his pulse lies.

“Are you okay?”

Taeyong hasn’t been this dizzy since the last time Yuta forced him and Youngho on that five-mile hike, a sorry attempt to have them exercise together. “Yeah, sorry,” Taeyong mumbles. His heart pounds in his ears, “Thanks.”

Doyoung’s eyes are shining, rapt on Taeyong. It’s that same expression again; something behind Doyoung’s relaxed features and closed mouth smile Taeyong reads that he’s expecting–hoping–for Taeyong to say something more. And if Taeyong blinked, he would’ve missed the way Doyoung’s eyes jumped to where his hand is still on Taeyong.

Taeyong thinks to laugh it off, to tell Doyoung, _Oh wow, this is a scene straight out of a movie_ , to pull his hand away and return it to his pocket, where it belongs. But then he remembers the marigold on their table, the way the sunlight bounced off its petals, drenching everything around it in gold.

Taeyong thinks about how he spent brunch admiring Doyoung’s hands.

Awkwardly, he shakes Doyoung off, only to grab onto him firmly. It’s an awkward sort of clasp, like how Taeyong used to hold onto his mother’s during walks through the park, like how he used to hold tightly onto his shabby teddy bear, like how he yanked on Youngho’s hand the last time they forced him on a rollercoaster. Despite that, it only mattered that Taeyong’s palm is to Doyoung’s.

Never in his life has he thought the idea of holding someone’s hand could be so wonderful.

Doyoung’s fingers are longer than his. Taeyong notices this when Doyoung maneuvers them to tangle their fingers together. They’re long and slender, and soft, just how Taeyong thought they’d be. They fit comfortably between Taeyong’s, the tips of his fingers brushing lightly over Taeyong’s knuckles. It’s intimate, Taeyong finds, in its own way, but he doesn’t mind it. He doesn’t mind it at all.

The rest of the subway ride is ridden in silence. Taeyong spends the remaining stops with all his attention pulled to where Doyoung’s hand is relaxed against his, and it might be the way the train is swaying, but their hands swing too, ever so slightly. Taeyong tries not to get too giddy at this, blinking his vision back into focus. He leads them out of the subway when the train pulls to a stop at their station, unperturbed by the sudden influx of people; 59th is always busy.

“Here,” he says, mostly to himself. They take turns going through the turnstile, Taeyong first, then Doyoung, and without missing a beat, their hands find their way to each other again–Taeyong’s left in Doyoung’s right.

It’s alarming, how instinctive it is.

Taeyong leads them through several flights of stairs and a winding maze of small, trinket shops. Doyoung follows closely behind. He’s staring curiously into the stores they amble by, lower lip pulled between his teeth. Taeyong slows his pace, equally distracted by Doyoung’s fascination and the fact that they’re still holding hands.

He’s relieved that they still are.

“I haven’t really been to this part of the city,” Doyoung admits. They’re out of the station now, heading a block down towards the fair. Doyoung was tempted by a sales lady to buy a ridiculously expensive bar of soap, but Taeyong managed to pull him free, escaping her clutches.

Taeyong skips a crack on the pavement, “Really? I figured the heart of the city’s the first place people’d think to visit.”

“I’ve been by just once,” Doyoung says, now enamored by the rows and rows of shops lining the streets. “It was a city tour run by the student team and we had ten other places to be–including three museums–so we didn’t spend that much time out here.”

“What ca–” Taeyong is stopped short when Doyoung loses his footing, stumbling over the uneven slab of concrete, nearly yanking Taeyong down with him. He saves Doyoung from falling face first onto the sidewalk, biting back a grin when he thinks of how Doyoung’d saved him earlier on the subway, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Doyoung answers a little breathlessly. He runs a hand through his hair, “Just–clumsy.”

Taeyong makes sure to hold onto Doyoung a little tighter.

Shaking his little trip off, Doyoung peers into a leather goods shop they pass by then, eyes regarding the display of wallets thoughtfully. Taeyong stays on his right, finding it hard to window-shop when his entire being is drawn to Doyoung like a moth to a flame, thoughts revolving only around him. They’re standing closer than they were in the subway, and it might just be the cooler evening air, but Taeyong deems it easier to breathe now.

“We could always come back,” he says. The bustle of the street isn’t enough to drown his voice out. Doyoung turns to him, inhaling audibly when he notices the distance between them. “The next time we–” Taeyong doesn’t try to back away this time, even with Doyoung standing so, _so_ close. Aside from the fact that his legs are no longer working, Taeyong didn’t _want_ to back away.

“We could always come back here, if you want.”

Doyoung’s gaze flit from Taeyong’s eyes to his lips, then back again. His tongue peeks out, pink, thinking hard enough for Taeyong to hear the cogs turning. There aren’t any words needed for him to know exactly what Doyoung’s thinking, but it’s not _happening_ , and the thought of it drives Taeyong mad.

_Soft._

“Yeah.” Doyoung clears his throat. He starts to walk again, tugging Taeyong along with him. For once, his palm feels warmer than Taeyong’s, who’s too busy being absolutely thrilled at the blush on Doyoung’s cheeks to notice. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

The fair is as big as Taeyong remembers it to be. Rows and rows of market stalls and game booths line the park, masses of people of all ages filling the spaces between. There are bigger rides towards the other end of it, but Doyoung had already expressed his dislike for them, and Taeyong was happy to comply. The entry to the fair is a large, arching gate with decorative banners and balloons, signs pointing towards the start of it all. Taeyong has to hold Doyoung a little closer, lest he bumps into a stroller or a teenager with their nose in their phone; he has his face tilted to the sky then to the massive scene before them, absorbing the colors bouncing off the tents and the delectable smell of grilled sausages and the sound of ten different music systems bleeding into one.

They dive first into the section on the right: food. There are too many choices so they circle the stalls a couple of times before deciding on a powdered sugar funnel cake to share.

“Do you like it?” Taeyong’s already on his second bite, loving the sugary goodness.

“It’s sweet,” Doyoung comments. Neutral.

Taeyong stops mid-chew, “You don’t like sweets?”

“I do,” Doyoung blinks down at him. He stifles a laugh, “Not as much as you, I don’t think.”

“But it’s so good!” Another couple behind them place an order for one with chocolate and strawberries. Taeyong shifts off to the side, taking the funnel cake along with him. Doyoung follows to close the space between. “You really don’t like it?”

Doyoung, to make a point, takes another bite and smiles.

“I can’t believe it.” Can’t believe that his soulmate would detest sweets? Taeyong presses his lips together and ignores the thought, “I used to get this every day when they sold it on campus. They even had ice cream and rainbow sprinkles, _and_ the third one’s always a dollar cheap.”

Doyoung laughs, and Taeyong would like to think that only half of it is in pity. “That’s really–” Doyoung shakes his head. He cuts himself half of a piece that’d fallen apart, hand under Taeyong’s to hold the plate still. He takes the smaller half, still smiling down at Taeyong.

“What?” Taeyong takes the bigger half, shoving it into his mouth. It’s just so good, he almost doesn’t care when Doyoung nearly doubles over at (what Taeyong can only assume to be) his love for all things sweet. Taeyong chews quickly, “Really what?”

“Nothing,” Doyoung says through another laugh. He straightens, sighing as if to rid the giggles from his system. Taeyong remains petulant, holding the plate away from Doyoung when he tries to take another bite. Doyoung nibbles on the edge of his fork, considering, “Really cute.” He adds, as if it wasn’t clear, “You are, I mean.”

Taeyong’s breath catches in his throat. The surprise must be apparent on his face because Doyoung is smiling again, pink-gummed and so painfully attractive, so annoyingly _smug_ at Taeyong’s bewilderment. He takes a bite of the funnel cake now that Taeyong is stunned frozen, eating with an excited hum. It’s only when he moves to eat another piece that he finally acknowledges Taeyong’s shell-shocked state. He opens his mouth but closes it, eyes narrowing just the slightest onto Taeyong’s lips.

 _Oh my god_. Taeyong, even in his corpse of a body, feels the tingle of anticipation on his skin. _Oh my_ god.

Doyoung lifts a hand; Taeyong nearly drops the plate to the ground. He thumbs at the corner of Taeyong’s lips, completely ignorant of the fact that Taeyong seems to have stopped _breathing_. His heart shakes madly and Taeyong prays to the highest of heavens that Doyoung can’t see the way it’s slamming around his chest, rioting to be let free, _let me free! Let me–just–let me–!_ His eyes are crossing with Doyoung so close; so, so, _so_ close that if Taeyong just–gave in and closed his eyes and leaned forward a little–

“Got it.”

Doyoung steps away then, taking Taeyong’s lungs along with him. He returns after grabbing a handful of napkins from the stand, handing some to Taeyong, who accepts it stiffly. He wipes his own thumb clean of powdered sugar, and Taeyong takes the moment to check if his body’s working right again. At this rate, he really isn’t going to make it to the end of the day.

He eats the last piece of cake, needing the extra sugar in his system.

“Should we get something else?” Doyoung takes the cleaned-out plate from Taeyong and tosses it into a nearby trashcan. When he returns, he reaches for Taeyong again and Taeyong lifts a hand to meet him halfway.

Taeyong’s stomach is full of butterflies. “Maybe a drink?” He’s about to suggest a watermelon cooler to share when a heavy hand lands on his shoulder, scaring him a foot into the air. He whirls around, hand dropping from Doyoung’s when he turns to meet his assailant,

“Hey!” In a chorus of unison Taeyong will never forget, Yuta and Youngho stand before him with matching devilish grins. With exaggeration, “ _Hey_!”

“What a nice surprise,” Youngho beams. “Didn’t think we’d find you here!” He’s smiling wide, staring down at Taeyong with eyes that reveal _, It took us forever to find you guys._

Taeyong grimaces, “Really? You _really_ didn’t think you’d find–”

Yuta ignores them, eyes twinkling when he changes course to address Doyoung instead, “Hey, you’re–you must be Taeyong’s new friend, right?”

To his credit, Doyoung steps up without hesitation, taking Yuta’s outstretched hand and shaking it twice, “Yeah, Kim Doyoung, it’s nice to meet you.”

“Nakamoto Yuta.” He coaxes Doyoung forward into their small square-like circle, then gestures respectively, “Seo Youngho, humble attendants to one Lee Taeyong.”

“Our King.” Youngho bows dramatically, “Your high majesty.”

Taeyong grits his teeth, embarrassment increasing by the second, “You’re so–”

Doyoung sticks out his hand and Youngho takes it. They shake twice again, and Doyoung repeats, “It’s nice to meet you.”

Taeyong winces at the unbelievable degree of awkwardness, but did he really expect anything less from his two best friends–not at all. Youngho introduces Taeil, and Yuta does the same with Jaehyun; Doyoung nods and smiles, stepping forward to shake their hands before returning to Taeyong’s side, as if controlled by a magnetic pull. Neither Yuta nor Youngho miss this, and the shit-eating grins they trade makes Taeyong roll his eyes.

“So, Doyoung,” Youngho squeezes between Yuta and Taeil to lead them down the next row of stalls. Taeyong watches Doyoung follow without pausing, not even sparing a _help me_ glance towards Taeyong. If he were in Doyoung’s shoe, he’d made a beeline straight for the exit. “Is it your first time here?”

“Yeah, I’m actually new to the city,” Doyoung explains. Yuta scurries forward to stand on Doyoung’s right, effectively pushing Taeyong physically out of the loop. “I just started my final year at CSU.”

“Ah, yes, the motherland–we pretty much all went to CSU too, except Yuta, who did his freshmen year back home, but–”

Taeyong stops listening then. Doyoung drifts further and further away with Youngho and Yuta on his flanks, both of whom are clinging onto his every word, eagerness evident. Taeil and Jaehyun seem not to mind that they’re off bothering Doyoung, but Taeyong’s uneasy by the emptiness in his palm. He shoves it into his pocket, refusing to concern himself with the implications it brings.

Yuta calls for Jaehyun when they reach a stall selling Japanese desserts. Youngho and Doyoung hover two stores away.

“Are you feeling okay?”

Taeyong turns from where he’d been staring into the back of Doyoung’s neck. Taeil is looking at him with a small smile, oddly enough with Youngho’s excitement subdued in his eyes. His heart slows a little; Taeil has always had that effect on him, exuding a sort of calmness that reminded him to breathe a little better. While Youngho would fight to the death on any day to keep Taeil to himself, Taeyong very much appreciated Taeil’s friendship too; it’s been a repeating occurrence, them hanging out without Youngho, to the taller boy’s dismay.

He hooks an arm with Taeil’s, itching for touch, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.”

Taeil gives him a little shake, “We’re all really happy for you, Yong.”

The _thank you_ comes out a little strangled. He didn’t quite know if it were something they could celebrate, or if they should even be celebrating at all. As much as he did feel something for Doyoung, the worries remain in Taeyong’s gut, simmering quietly, waiting for the right chance to erupt. He says this to Taeil lowly, even when he knows full well that the chatter of the fair’s enough to keep it from reaching Doyoung’s ears.

Taeil is careful, “But you do want to give this a chance?” He takes deliberate steps towards a tent selling cotton candy, placing distance between them and the rest.

“I–” Taeyong hugs Taeil’s arm a little closer. “I think I do, but everything’s moving really fast.”

“Fast?”

Taeyong hides into Taeil’s shoulder, “I met him two nights ago and I’m already so–affected by everything he does.” Taeil doesn’t brush him off or poke fun at his obvious deliriousness, simply raising a hand to pat soothingly down the back of Taeyong’s neck, “I don’t know if it’s moving too fast or if it’s _supposed_ to feel like this or if I’m just making it all up in my head, but it’s all so indescribable.” Taeil takes his hand away, “And I’m worried. There a lot of things I’m worried about, I can’t even think of them without losing my mind.”

“And I think that’s reasonable.” Taeil, ever a person of few words, always knows what to say. Taeyong finds it comforting, confiding in Taeil. “This is a huge deal, Taeyong, I wouldn’t fault you for being worried. It’s okay to be worried.”

Quietly, “His soulmark.”

Taeil pays the vendor for strawberry-rose flavored floss. They inch to the corner while the machine starts up, watching the floss form in the large metal tin. Without taking his eyes off the floss, Taeil wonders, “If you had a soulmark, do you think it would’ve colored in for him?”

 _An impossible question._ Taeyong shrugs, “I don’t know.”

“Would you want it to?”

The floss turns pink. “I don’t–” Taeyong closes his eyes. His first thought is Doyoung’s hand in his. The touch he’s missing. “I don’t know, I think I would. Is that–too soon?

“Soon or not, isn’t that enough for now? Enough to give him a chance?”

“Yeah.” _Doyoung is enough._ Taeyong rests his head on Taeil’s shoulder, “Yeah, it is.”

The store vendor brandishes an expertly made cotton candy cloud, handing it to Taeil in a paper cone with some extra paper napkins. They thank him, continuing on their journey back to the rest, plucking the cloud apart as they go. Taeil says nothing more on the matter, moving them along onto a topic they wouldn’t mind being eavesdropped on.

But before his words can be caught on ears other than Taeyong’s, Taeil muses, “Whatever happens, will happen. The moment you give him a chance, whether or not you worry, it’s going to happen. I know you don’t believe so,” he pats Taeyong’s arm softly, “but you _have_ a choice. It’s not just fate–it’s destiny. It’s something you can change, Taeyong.”

“Where’d you guys go?” Youngho asks the moment they return. He reaches immediately for the cotton candy, humming happily when Taeil tells him it’s rose, his favorite. Easily, Taeil slips out of Taeyong’s hold, accompanying Youngho off to the side to go, _Look at this chocolate crepe design!_

Before he can even start to look, Doyoung is by his side again, a bottle of water in his hand. He uncaps it and holds it out for Taeyong to take, to which he does with a quiet _thank you_.

“Figured you’d be thirsty,” Doyoung says. Taeyong tries not to down the entire bottle, “What with all the sweets you’re having.”

If that were a jab at his sweet tooth, Taeyong ignores it, capping the bottle and holding it by the neck. Without thinking, he takes Doyoung’s hand in his, twisting their fingers together–it feels like coming home. When Doyoung glances at Youngho and Yuta in a silent question, Taeyong stands a little taller, a silent answer. Doyoung simpers, thumb caressing Taeyong’s.

Taeyong catches it when Yuta elbows Youngho hard in the ribs, head jerking towards their hands with a wild look on his face. He doesn’t miss Youngho’s choke in response either, but Taeyong simply leads Doyoung away, caring only about the smile on his face.

It’s long after the sun has set now.

In preparation for the fireworks display, Jaehyun managed to find them all a good spot overlooking the lake, on a grass patch where they share the picnic blanket Youngho’d brought along. After what both Yuta and Youngho deem is enough interrogation, they willingly released Doyoung from their endless slew of questions, not-so-subtly giving Taeyong winning smiles and encouraging thumbs ups. Doyoung returned to Taeyong’s side immediately, wordlessly. He didn’t say a word about being so obviously questioned, didn’t complain a single bit. He merely resembled a puppy, tired out after entertaining a bunch of children, sticking close to Taeyong like he needed his energy recharged.

They’re waiting for the fireworks to begin, the cool wind of September the only reason Taeyong isn’t having trails of sweat down his back from being so close to Doyoung.

“Are you okay?” Taeyong asks now. He’s lying on his side, left arm a pillow for his cheek, watching Doyoung study the skies. His free hand is in Doyoung’s grasp, resting comfortably on Doyoung’s torso. Taeyong clarifies when Doyoung turns his focus around, face illuminated by the moonlight, brows pinched in question, “You look–tired. That’s all.”

“It’s been a long day,” Doyoung admits. His thumb traces the slope of the bone jutting out on Taeyong’s wrist, hitching it to rest higher up on his chest. With a breath, he smiles, “But it’s been a good day.”

His heart beats steadily under Taeyong’s palm.

Behind him, Taeyong hears Youngho and Jaehyun bicker over personal space, and there’s a jab to his back from Taeil’s elbow. Granted, it _is_ a small picnic blanket–they weren’t exactly planning to share it between six people. Taeyong shifts a little closer to Doyoung, who’s already on the edge of the mat, trying not to let Doyoung’s wide eyes deter him from his snap decision. He nearly bumps into Doyoung’s chin when he looks up, and then he’s looking down again, realizing belatedly how close they actually are. He isn’t quite sure when in the day did he start to valiantly rid the space between them, but he didn’t think his heart would fail on him so quickly once he did.

He imagines Doyoung curling close to him in the mornings, grabbing him from behind and spinning him around for a sweet kiss in the afternoons, reaching across the kitchen counter to smile down at him with that smile that haunts him whenever he closes his eyes for more than a half-second.

 _Get a grip_.

Taeyong wonders how many times over the course of today alone does the fates expect him to survive Doyoung looking at him like _this_ and yet not let himself be kissed. With Doyoung’s breath mingling with his, Taeyong feels that sense of intoxication return, eyelids weighing heavier by the second. His eyes trail along Doyoung’s features as if he hasn’t already got them all memorized; there’s a small scar on the corner of Doyoung’s lips, or maybe it’s just a birthmark or–Taeyong denies himself the urge to touch it, to trace his finger over it and take the advantage to stroke at the plushness of Doyoung’s lips.

And he smells so _good._

“I–”

“ _Ow_ , Jaehyun!” Taeyong hears Youngho grumble, shadowed by the sound of Jaehyun yelping in pain. “Hey–he hit me _first_ –Yuta!” There’s scrambling, arms knocking into Taeyong again when Yuta smacks Youngho in retaliation, leading Youngho to dive into Taeil’s arms.

Taeyong is second away from telling his friends to get a grip when Doyoung is squeezing his hand, stealing his attention away, “Do you want to–” he props himself up, scanning the crowd around them, “There’s still time before the show.”

“But I think–”

Youngho’s foot slams into the back of Taeyong’s thigh.

 _Right._ “Let’s get out of here.”

They slip away without being noticed–and if they were noticed, no one bothered enough to ask where they were off sneaking to–navigating their way through the myriad of couples and families littered across the lawn. Somehow, he manages to bring Doyoung to a quiet part of the fair, most of the stalls now preparing for last orders. It’s dark, the outskirts of the park, lamps and lanterns dimmed in lieu of the fireworks display. Taeyong wonders if it’s more than instinct when Doyoung reaches for his hand again.

Silence sits between them, both their attentions turned to the sky, waiting for the fireworks to start. Music floods the speakers with a lulling, fairy tale-like tune, and Taeyong’s chest wells up with emotion from the melody of it tinkering about. Then, the first four shells are shot high above them, cutting through the darkness with bright sparks of red. They soar above, brilliant lights searing across the night’s canvas. A symphony of different colors and patterns follow suit, the _pop_ s and _bang_ s deafening–Taeyong feels every one like they’re exploding in his chest.

And he–waits. He’s still waiting. There are hundreds, thousands, of sparks in the sky now, but Taeyong finds himself waiting still.

A particularly loud firework graces the sky, and Taeyong feels it against his palm. And he feels it again, and again, and again–impossible. Then again, and Taeyong inhales lowly when he pieces together that it’s Doyoung, squeezing his hand, trying to get his attention. The fireworks paint his features a faint hue of pink, flashing when another four sparks color the night.

Doyoung’s eyes are glazed. He swallows, inching closer, so heartachingly _close_. Taeyong breathes heavily, chest rising and falling. Doyoung watches the movement, lips parting. The fireworks are long forgotten.

 _Oh_.

Taeyong grounds himself to Doyoung, pulling on their hands until they’re firm against the small of his back and there isn’t enough space for either of them to breathe. All forms of reasoning leave him the moment he’s captured by Doyoung’s hand on his hip, lining their bodies together. Courage is contagious; Taeyong reaches to rest his palm flat against the low of Doyoung’s neck, over the curve of his collarbone.

Doyoung’s voice shakes, “I think–this. Can I–”

“ _Yes_.”

The wait is over.

Doyoung kisses him.

It takes every fiber in Taeyong’s body not to jolt at the press of Doyoung’s lips against his, warm and as plush as they look to be, as Taeyong imagined they’d be. There’s a nervous thrum so evident that Taeyong _tastes_ it on his lips; he tilts his head to kiss Doyoung a little deeper, taking and taking, near trembling, courses of shivers rushing through him relentlessly. He releases Doyoung’s hand in favor of running it along his shoulder then chest, pressing himself into Doyoung. He’s steadied by Doyoung, pushing back now, confidence rising in a way that makes Taeyong melt.

Doyoung cups his cheek, and Taeyong relaxes into the touch, sighing contentedly. The entire world falls away and Taeyong knows only of Doyoung’s lips on his and Doyoung’s hands on him. He parts his lips, surrendering with soft moans, longing for more, urging for more. Doyoung licks into his mouth, tongue running over his teeth and tongue, drinking Taeyong in. He’s breathing heavy through his nose, fingers digging greedily, hungrily into Taeyong’s hip, pulling them close and closer until Taeyong feels _everything_. Warmth spreads over his skin and he loses his mind.

The hot purr of _want_ curls tightly in his gut. He hasn’t wanted this badly in a long time.

Doyoung breaks the kiss to take a breather, to pull back with wide eyes, but Taeyong doesn’t let him get too far, kissing him again when the impatience kicks in. He moans quietly, indecently, _loudly_ , and Taeyong is thankful for the distracting fireworks display. He kisses Doyoung harder. He pushes his tongue into Doyoung’s mouth, twirling it with Doyoung’s and making sure he’s tasted thoroughly before pulling away.

They don’t speak.

Taeyong turns his head slightly, kissing the palm of Doyoung’s hand where it’d been caressing his cheek. Intimate, Taeyong knows. _Why_ he does it–that he hasn’t the answer to. But Doyoung doesn’t pull his hand away, instead watching on with incredulity and amazement and curiosity and _hope_. And, like it has been the entire day, Taeyong finds marigold in his sight. _If I could just–_ Taeyong’s heart cries out. Without thinking: he holds onto Doyoung’s wrist, keeping it in place to press his lips to the soulmark.

It’s cool against his lips; Taeyong didn’t know if he expected it to be warm, gold and all, or if he wanted it to feel like Doyoung’s lips, warmer, _better_. But he finds answers to questions he hadn’t ever thought of before. He kisses it again gently, almost as if trying to understand it, understand the whys and the hows. He isn’t sure if his mind’s playing his tricks on him, but Taeyong is confident that he feels Doyoung’s heartbeat on his lips, rhythmic, strong. There isn’t time for the embarrassment to sink in when he pulls away because Doyoung is pulling him back in again, claiming his lips for a kiss that makes his heart thunder louder than the _pop_ and _bang_ of the fireworks.

And that is enough. More than a sign from the fates, more than what Taeyong could’ve ever wished for, more than just changing his mind, than breaking down walls, than anything, than _fate_ –Doyoung is enough.

Doyoung is more than enough.


	2. Chapter 2

Come in the twilight soft and gray,  
Come in the night or come in the day,  
Come, O love, whene’er you may,  
And you are welcome, welcome. 

You are sweet, O Love, dear Love,  
You are soft as the nesting dove.  
Come to my heart and bring it to rest  
As the bird flies home to its welcome nest.

Come when the year’s first blossom blows,  
Come when the summer gleams and glows,  
Come with the winter’s drifting snows,  
And you are welcome, welcome.

\-- _Invitation to Love_ (revised) _,_ Paul Laurence Dunbar

\--

I. _Come in the twilight soft and grey_

October

Taeyong brings him to all the hole-in-the-wall restaurants–from cheap burritos and the one-man street-side nachos stand, to that Chinese restaurant hidden in a darkened corner where the owners knew him by name. Whether or not Doyoung notices too that they’ve met for dinner every other evening since the day they’ve met, Taeyong doesn’t know. But the younger boy is always bright-eyed and quick to answer whenever Taeyong mentions a good dinner place he knows they can try some day.

“Do you come here a lot?” Doyoung asks, thanking the waiter quietly. The menu is a single sheet of paper, laminated and filled with words on the front and back.

“Probably twice a week when I was still in school, yeah,” Taeyong waves back when the owner recognizes him from tables away. She calls for one of her runners to bring some iced tea drinks their way, the one Taeyong never fails to get every time he comes by. Some concoction of tea and syrup that never tastes just as good when he tries to recreate it at home. He picks the menu up for a cursory glance; he already knows what he’s having. “The fried rice is good here,” he tells Doyoung, “I either get that or one of the soups if it’s cold out.”

They order quickly, deciding to split two dishes between them both, as per Taeyong’s recommendation. Under the table, Doyoung’s legs–considerably longer than Taeyong’s–bump into his, and before Doyoung can pull away, Taeyong hooks their ankles together, trapping him there. Doyoung smiles in a way that makes the rest of the room dim; Taeyong’s still fumbling to get used to that effect Doyoung has on him, whether it’s deliberate or not.

“I should probably get some takeaway later,” Doyoung hums. He fiddles with the chopsticks on the table, “I think Kun’s been missing home lately.”

“And Chinese food is going to help?”

“It might,” Doyoung sets the chopstick down. Taeyong flips his hand around, palm up, “When I get homesick, I always think about having food my mother used to make me.”

“That’s sweet,” Taeyong smiles when Doyoung reaches across the table to toy with his fingers instead. The silver rings on his second and fourth finger gleam prettily under the light; Taeyong thinks them to suit Doyoung perfectly. After a moment’s pause, “Do you? Miss home?”

Doyoung busies himself with tracing the lines on Taeyong’s palm, inching forward to press his thumb where Taeyong’s pulse lies. He takes a deep inhale, hoping it’d help in slowing his racing heart. “I do, sometimes,” Doyoung answers. Then smiles again, small and hesitant and something beneath it Taeyong can’t place, “But I like it here.”

Sweet words Taeyong will never tire to hear. He flips their hands back around, bringing marigold to his lips. After the first few times he’d kissed Doyoung’s soulmark, it grew to be an action he sought for, something that’s just between them two, something he’d never thought would give him such unrestrained joy. Against it, Taeyong whispers, “I like it when you’re here too.” Doyoung’s eyes follow the movement of his lips, “You’re settling in okay, right?”

Their hands rest on the table, “It’s alright.” Taeyong frowns, a silent question, patient when Doyoung struggles to find the words, “It’s been–a little hard, making friends.”

There’s a pinch to the corner of Taeyong’s heart, “Oh.”

“I mean, I _have_ friends,” Doyoung laughs, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Taeyong traces the tip of his foot against the back of Doyoung’s calf, “But they’re not. I guess, they’re just not the same as the ones back home, and I don’t know,” he shrugs, “It feels weird. Like I’m alone.”

Taeyong brings Doyoung’s hand to his lips again, concern doubling, “But you’re not alone.” A sticky wave of shyness rolls through him, “You have me.”

That makes Doyoung smile, taking Taeyong’s hand and kissing it in turn.

“And Youngho and Yuta.” Taeyong adds, squeezing Doyoung’s hand, “And Taeil and Jaehyun. They’re your friends too–they’re always asking about you, which is almost painful considering how they don’t ask about me as much anymore.”

Quietly, “Thank you.” Doyoung grins, “I do–I have you.” He lets his hand be taken by Taeyong again, “I know I should give it some time since I’ve only just moved here, but–still, I don’t want to rely solely on you so I’m sorry if I–”

“You can,” Taeyong kisses his wrist. The buzz of the restaurant is nothing to the sound of his heart slamming in his ears, _I have you._ “Rely on me.”

Doyoung, Taeyong realized, didn’t like that to be said about himself. From little gestures to the slip of the tongue, Taeyong’s gathered enough to know that Doyoung took pride in his independence, in doing things on his own, in having control over his emotions. He didn’t like not knowing things, Taeyong found, and he most of all didn’t like being _told_ that.

“If you want,” Taeyong says. “I’m–” _Am I? I’m,_ “–you have me.”

Just as easily, as quickly, as _simply_ had Doyoung broke the walls around Taeyong, Taeyong thinks he’s making a dent in Doyoung’s. He wants to coddle Doyoung, has this inane desire to hold him close and wrap him up in a blanket, to keep him close and never let him go. The frightening thought had come to him during an afternoon meeting at work, and Taeyong thinks himself mad for it.

“And I–wanted to ask you about something, actually. Your opinion, I guess. Your thoughts.”

Doyoung’s expression turns serious. He stretches his fingers out to touch Taeyong’s cheek, still watching the way Taeyong chooses to speak to marigold, “What is it?”

“This,” Taeyong eyes the space between them. It’s not much, considering how the table is tiny and their limbs are tangled above and under it. So, so, _so_ close, Taeyong has never felt anything like this in his life. His mind spins at the thought of finally asking what he’s been thinking of over the last week, “This is–what is this? Exactly?”

Doyoung waits, “Us?”

“Yeah, I–” Taeyong whispers, suddenly unable to speak. Doyoung leans in closer, brows pinching together, “Are we dating?” He blinks owlishly. Words fail Taeyong, “No, no, I know we’re dating–we’ve been on dates, obviously, I–what I mean is–are we _just_ dating or are we–I don’t know, does having a soulmark automatically make us boyfriends, I–”

“Are you asking me to be your boyfriend?”

Taeyong turns red at the explicitness, “Am I?”

Doyoung lowers his gaze to the condiment rack and Taeyong wishes he wouldn’t when he mumbles, “I want to be.” His hand pulls away from Taeyong’s cheek but Taeyong doesn’t let go, holding onto Doyoung and circling his thumb over marigold. “I didn’t know if you–if we should have labels. If you wanted a label for us.”

Taeyong hurries, “We don’t have to have a label.” The soulmark feels warm under his finger, but he knows it’s his mind playing tricks on him. He speaks slow, “I was just curious. About what you thought, about us. About me. Being your boyfriend.”

“Are you my boyfriend?”

 _Yes._ Taeyong tosses back, “I want to be.” Hearing it makes his stomach churn (in a good way, in the most fantastic way, in the best way, in a way it’s never flip-flopped ever before), “Your boyfriend.”

Doyoung is sheepish to admit, “I’ve never had a boyfriend. Or have been a boyfriend.”

“Neither have I.”

Doyoung’s eyes widen for a second before he’s turning away, red at the revelation, clearly thinking Taeyong to have considered his line of exes as boyfriends. Not that Taeyong could fault him for thinking so. Just days ago, Taeyong learned of Doyoung’s spotless past, unbelieving of it until he realized the growing tension over their ground beef nachos.

Taeyong did his best to listen attentively; Doyoung found it hard to pick just anyone off the street for a date or a drunken encounter while knowing his soulmark didn’t color in, wouldn’t color in. He asked quietly about Taeyong’s in return, eyes flashing with a pointed possessiveness that Taeyong never thought he’d be on the receiving end of. He admitted of three other boys he’s ever kissed, all of whom had bonded with him over having not a slight of a soulmark.

“Tell me about him,” Doyoung had said. He carefully inspected the label of his second bottle of beer, peeling at the edges and keeping his eyes far from Taeyong’s.

Taeyong was quiet, “Which one?”

Doyoung tore off the label, crushing it roughly. “The first one.”

Taeyong took a long sip from his own beer (his third), alcohol buzzing enough for his mouth to work on its own, “It was in high school. It happened during lunch, a boy–I can’t remember his name anymore–said he liked me. Took me to an empty classroom and confessed to me with a lollipop, of all things. I–knew what not having a soulmark meant and what it meant for me, but I was so happy, I guess, that anyone could ever like me.” Doyoung’s jaw tightened. Taeyong took another sip, “He asked if he could kiss me and I said okay.”

The silence made Doyoung ask, “How long did you date him for?”

Taeyong eyed the remnants of his beer, thinking to order another, “His soulmark colored in that night.” Doyoung stiffened where he sat across their cleared-out plate of nachos. “He claimed he didn’t even know he _had_ a soulmark. He told me he was sure he didn’t. I never spoke to him again after that.”

Doyoung whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“No, no.” Taeyong sighed, tilting his face to the graying sky. There were too many city lights for him to see the stars, “I don’t remember much of it anyway.” Doyoung’s rigid shoulders and tightened clutch around the beer bottle’s neck made Taeyong go on, “My second–” he hesitated, “–person. He was a friend from–well, don’t laugh at me–a dance club.” Doyoung didn’t move, still frozen in place with his head ducked down. Taeyong swallowed the discomfort, “He asked me out on a date, and I said okay. He didn’t have a soulmark either, but things just didn’t work out between us and we called it quits. It was amicable.”

By then, the only thing left on Doyoung’s bottle was the stickiest parts of the label, refusing to budge from where he’d been so diligently picking at it.

Taeyong paused, whispering, “Is this okay?”

Doyoung nodded curtly.

“And the last one–” Taeyong sat up straighter. He wished not to talk about it, but Doyoung had asked and he didn’t need to hear Doyoung admit how important it was for him to know, or how badly he wanted to know of it. Dazedly, he wished for the space between them gone so that he could take Doyoung’s hand and kiss marigold sweet. “Lasted a little longer than I thought it would.”

Strained, “How long?”

Warmth bloomed in Taeyong’s chest, stupidly giddy at the possessiveness Doyoung had over him. _It must be the beer thinking_. He cleared his throat, “About two months, I think. Which I thought was a really long time. Until I realized Yuta and Jaehyun had by then already been dating two years and I felt dumb for thinking two months was even anything worth mentioning.”

“You’re not dumb,” Doyoung murmured. He still hadn’t looked up. Taeyong felt the embarrassing, desperate urge to be close to Doyoung, to admit boldly that in the time they’ve been together, he’s never felt this strongly for anyone ever. That no one could quite compare to the trench Doyoung’s dug in his heart with his snarky remarks and sweet words, his deadpanned glares and the most loving, literal heart eyes he gives to no one but Taeyong. But Doyoung was adamant to remain fascinated by the ground so Taeyong kept his hands on his own bottle of beer, nearly breaking it to pieces. “Two months is something. Two months is a long time.”

“I met him in my final year. He was a friend of Youngho's.” Taeyong set the bottle on the ground. Enough alcohol was in him for the night. There’s a prick in his heart. Not one that yearns the past, but a twinge for the sake of it, the memory. Of pale arms dotted with tattoos, of thick brows that furrowed whenever he threw his head back to laugh, of a warm embrace that lead Taeyong through that winter. “We dated and it was going well, but it was–casual. Really casual, just a lot of hanging out, I guess. No one knew about it–not even Yuta or Youngho. Like it was a–” he smiled tightly, “–like I was a secret.”

Doyoung exhaled.

“He was–going to introduce me to his friends over spring break, but he didn’t.” Taeyong blinked at the blurred cracks on the ground, “He didn’t, and he started to keep–things. From me. He didn’t want to tell my anything, said it wouldn’t do us any good, said it were things that had nothing to do with me. But that–it wasn’t true. We fought and broke up. And it happened twice over–fighting and breaking up and then more fighting–before I finally decided that maybe–maybe I didn’t deserve to find someone after all.” He murmured the last bit apologetically, “I haven’t seen him since I graduated.”

Silence sat between them until Doyoung whispered, “Did you love him?”

Taeyong thought he’d heard wrong. Though he’d made it up in his mind, but he was sure he didn’t. Doyoung’s lips moved and he heard the question as clear as the night sky. For a long while, he didn’t move and neither did Doyoung. Not until a particularly chilly breeze came by, nearly overturning their empty box of nachos. Taeyong reached for it on reflex, hand bumping into Doyoung’s when he reached to steady it too. Doyoung kept his gaze averted, and Taeyong felt his heart sink to his stomach.

The silence was enough an answer.

 _He’s changing his mind._ Taeyong pulled his hands away. The beer thought, _He’s not okay with this. I’m not–he’s not okay with me, my soulmark, I don’t–he doesn’t–he doesn’t want this–he’s changing his mind–_

Doyoung stood, picking up their bottle of beers and walking away.

“Wait.” Taeyong’s breath hitched, voice cracking when he tried to say _Doyoung,_ “No, wait–”

Doyoung didn’t stop. He walked over with his long legs to a trash bin by the corner of the street, and stood. Taeyong rose on shaky legs, watching Doyoung, waiting to watch him turn on his heel and walk away, to accept that maybe he could find someone better, someone with an actual soulmark that spent their entire lives waiting for the perfect one just as he had.

Taeyong opened his mouth, ready to say, _But it’s different. You and me. You’re different. This is different, Doyoung–Doyoung, you’re different–you–_

Doyoung turned–back around, like he’d heard Taeyong think. His hands were still in his pockets, his gaze was still turned away. Taeyong refused to let himself be relieved at it, waiting, _waiting_ for Doyoung to tell him that–it simply can’t work between them. It just can’t. It’s not in their fate. It’s not written in their cards.

“I’m sorry,” Doyoung said instead. He pulled a hand–his right hand–out of his pocket, holding it out to Taeyong, “I shouldn’t have made you talk about it. I just–I’m sorry, I was just–”

_Jealous._

Taeyong couldn’t believe how much unbridled joy coursed through him at the revelation. At how it made him feel so _wanted._

“–stupid,” Doyoung finished.

Taeyong shook off the nagging thought of how it should be worrying, the degree of which it mattered that he wanted to feel needed by Doyoung. He took Doyoung’s hand with a steadying breath, “I would’ve told you anyway. Whatever you wanted to know, whenever you wanted to know it, I would’ve told you. It’s different now, Doyoung–whatever it’s supposed to be between us, it’s different.”

Doyoung didn’t look convinced.

“You’re different to me. Before you, I–I didn’t even _want_ to find someone, Doyoung–I know it–it might be too early for me to say this, or it might be too–ridiculous to believe, but I never thought I’d find someone, much less _deserve_ to.”

Doyoung flinched at his words, turning away harshly, stricken. He brought Doyoung’s hand up to his lips and kissed against the gold there, willing for his attention. He kissed it again to have Doyoung look at him, finally, and once more until he’s caving in and pulling Doyoung down by the collar, kissing him squarely on the lips. Doyoung kissed back, still mumbling apologies but hugging him close, and it wasn’t until Taeyong shook the alcohol from his mind that he remembers hearing Doyoung whisper, _Please don’t say that._

Doyoung’s tongue pokes through his teeth now, _thinking._ Taeyong squeezes Doyoung’s hand, regaining his attention, “You’re my first boyfriend.”

Doyoung smiles, a million-dollar, thousand-watt, award-winning smile, “And you’re mine.”

Just the phrase makes Taeyong shiver, “I’m yours.” The words sink in between them, settling low in the haze that’d seemed to have manifested on its own. They burst into quiet laughter, nothing but the purest of affection Taeyong sees in Doyoung’s eyes, hoping that Doyoung sees the same in his.

_II. Come to my heart and bring it to rest_

November

“Are you sure?” Taeyong tries not to sound too out of breath from climbing up his third flight of stairs. While Doyoung’s apartment building is fairly new, the elevators have been down for maintenance since the beginning of the month and Taeyong appreciates none of it. He groans inwardly at the idea of climbing another two flights of stairs; the landings are decorated with horrifying, Victorian era paintings and Taeyong’s heart is already weakened by all the cardio–there almost isn’t enough blood in his veins to keep his heart working.

“We don’t have to go out for dinner if you’re sick.”

“No, I–” A succession of coughs punctuate Doyoung’s words, “I have to eat anyway, and we have reservations–”

“Darling,” he sighs, _Darh-ling_. Over the line, Doyoung make an indignant noise in the back of his throat. Taeyong’d let the little pet name slip some time ago, influenced greatly after his binge on _The Great British Bake Off_. He’d been studiously practising the accent, throwing him into a loop of referring to Doyoung as sweetly as such, _my darling_. It made the younger boy red, cheeks flushed with embarrassment (and a hint of delight, Taeyong thinks). The reaction alone was more than enough for Taeyong to decide that he’ll have Doyoung flustered with the endearing term in the foreseeable future.

“You’re sick. You have a fever, we really don’t have to go out for dinner today–”

“But I haven’t seen you all week.”

Taeyong nearly trips over the last step on the stairs, heart welling with joy. The take-out bag in his hand swings forward, rustling noisily, Styrofoam squeaking warningly. Clumsily, he checks for spillages, hands gone cold from Doyoung’s words. Midterm season has Doyoung suffering a serious case of the flu, so Taeyong thought to surprise him by bringing dinner to his apartment instead of their regular Wednesday night dates.

He blushes to himself, “You saw me on Sunday.”

“I–” Doyoung suppresses a cough. Taeyong resumes his gait for apartment 5H at the end of the hall. “I’ll be busy all week,” he’s speaking so softly into the receiver (or it might just be Taeyong’s heart pounding), “And I’ve been looking forward to tonight–I mean, I look forward to every Wednesday night, so I–dinner–”

Taeyong knocks on the door twice.

“Ah–hold on,” Doyoung says to him on the phone. “Someone’s at the door. I’ll be right back.”

Taeyong’s already smiling by the time the door swings open, dissolving into giggles when Doyoung’s jaw drops instantly to the ground. He stares at Taeyong, then at his phone, head turning comically back and forth before he gathers enough sense to hang up and usher Taeyong in.

“What are you–” Another round of coughs attacks him, “What’re you doing here? I thought we–didn’t you–I thought–”

“I came here,” Taeyong starts, effectively saving Doyoung the pain of stringing words together. He leaves the bag full of Thai food on the kitchen island, turning to face Doyoung with a grin, “To surprise you.”

“I–what–but–”

“You’re sick.” Taeyong reaches to push Doyoung’s hair out of his eyes, checking his temperature with the back of his hand. It’s warmer than usual, “And you really _are_ having a fever. There’s no way you’re going to make it through dinner, so I thought to bring it to you instead.”

Doyoung grabs Taeyong’s hand from his forehead, holding onto it firmly, “I thought–” sheepishly, “I thought you were going to cancel on me.”

“Contrary to what you might think, Kim Doyoung–I actually look forward to seeing you every Wednesday too. Even if I do already see you way too often on the weekends.”

“You do?”

“Of course I do, darling.” Taeyong kisses him shortly, pulling away to unpack their dinner, “Do you want to put a movie on?”

“I–”

Doyoung’s face twists into something unreadable. It throws Taeyong off because he thought he’d been getting better at that–reading Doyoung. A lot more has filled out on his list after _lip licking–thinking_ ; his nose scrunches when he’s hungry specifically for (savory) snacks, the habit of running a hand through his hair whenever he’s painfully stuck on a reading (it meant he couldn’t seem to focus enough to finish); the tapping of his foot meant he couldn’t wrap his mind around whatever assignment he was working on.

Taeyong didn’t like it when he couldn’t read Doyoung.

He sets his thoughts aside, playing it off to it being his first time dealing with a flu-ridden Doyoung.

“I probably should’ve told you I was coming over.” Taeyong notes the mess of textbooks and papers spread across the coffee table, Doyoung’s laptop in the middle of it all. He turns back around, noticing belatedly the pair of round, clear frame glasses Doyoung has on, “Are these new?”

Distractedly, “Yeah.”

“Mm,” Taeyong tiptoes to get a closer look. He always thought Doyoung looked extra charming in glasses, but he’s rarely seen Doyoung in them, the younger boy preferring soft lenses. He thinks of his own thick, rectangular framed ones on his night stand, “I’ve always wanted to try glasses like these, but Yuta says it makes my face look two dimensional.” Doyoung mouth parts, but he speaks nothing, “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Doyoung says, jaw snapping shut. Taeyong reads him enough to know that that’s a solid _No_.

“What is it?”

“You–brought me dinner.”

“I did. I brought you congee.”

Slowly, “You brought me dinner because I was sick?”

“Yes,” Taeyong doesn’t understand why there’s confusion. He pauses with a bowl of chicken ginger congee in his hands, “Did you really want to go out?”

“I–well, no.” Sick-Doyoung works haltingly, which is saying something because Regular-Doyoung moves and thinks outstandingly quicker than Taeyong does on any day. He takes the bowl from Taeyong, settling it onto the island to take Taeyong’s hands, “I haven’t had anyone bring me dinner in a long time.” He laughs meekly, “And I just thought you were going to cancel, and I–wanted to see you.”

“I just told you I want to see you,” Taeyong can’t help but smile at the fuzzy feeling warming his chest, “That I wanted to see you too.”

The light from the kitchen casts a warm hue across Doyoung’s face, causing the tip of his Cupid’s bow to look particularly kissable. And it didn’t help just how much Taeyong enjoyed kissing Doyoung; hands on his shoulders, around his neck, sliding down the small of his back to reach as much as he can–it’s an addiction, at this point. He’s ready to close the gap between them, to let his eyelids fall shut, to kiss Doyoung like how he’s been dreaming about all day when the softest breath stuns his very core,

“I love you.”

Doyoung has a penchant for making Taeyong’s heart race, for making it slow, for making it jump off walls and sprint down buildings, making it slam into pavements and rush into traffic, but this time, his heart _stops_. His heart rests. He can’t hear it in his ears anymore, he isn’t even sure if it’s still in his chest, if it’s in Doyoung’s instead. Doyoung’s eyes mist over, but it never for a second leaves Taeyong.

All of the times Taeyong’s thought to say it, planned to say it. All of the times Taeyong wondered if things were moving too fast, if he were forcing things into place, if he were the only one falling in love at the speed of light.

To tell Doyoung _No you’re not, I love you, you idiot_ when he’s worried over whether or not he’s asking to meet too often, to see Taeyong every other day; to tell Doyoung _It’s because I’m in love with you_ when Doyoung asks why he’s happy to grab pancakes or burritos after getting off work at nine; to tell Doyoung _I love you_ every time they hug goodbye, instead of _See you_ or _I’ll call you later_ or _You’re actually, seriously going to miss the last train, Kim Doyoung!_

All of the times he _knew_ somehow that Doyoung wanted to say it too–that he wanted to say something more than just _I miss you_ over their late-night calls, more than just _Thank you, it was so good_ whenever Taeyong brought him some homemade food to tide through days of busy classes, more than just _Call me when you get home, okay?_ when they’re kissing goodbye at the turnstile.

Taeyong exhales shortly, almost in disbelief when he feels his mouth twist into a mad smile. It breaks Doyoung’s anxious frown, and Taeyong kisses him before he can even finish the thought.He shakes free of Doyoung’s hold to take Doyoung’s face in his hands, surging forward roughly. Doyoung makes a muffled groan when he stumbles them into the kitchen island, letting Taeyong manhandle him. His hands fly to Taeyong’s hips to steady them, lest Taeyong tries to shove him further into the marble top.

Sweet, _sweet_ love. The air is almost dripping saccharine.

The air in Taeyong’s lungs is starting to thin from all the not-breathing he’s doing, “I love you.”

Doyoung’s eyes double like he honestly can’t believe it, like he didn’t just say _I love you_ first, like it isn’t the most obvious thing that Taeyong loves him too. He holds onto Taeyong, swaying unsteadily with Taeyong pressing up against him. With effort, “You love me?”

“I just said so,” Taeyong laughs into their kiss, too properly in love with Doyoung to want even a breath of air between them. He watches Doyoung through his lashes, “I love you, of course I love you.” He grins, “How could I not be in love with you?”

Doyoung simpers, “You love me.”

Their grins make kissing harder than it should be, teeth clacking painfully because neither of them have it in themselves to stop smiling. Taeyong cards his fingers through Doyoung’s hair, dark and soft. His nose bumps into Doyoung’s glasses, “I love you.”

Through a kiss, “You’re going to get sick from–”

“Don’t care,” Taeyong mumbles, lips moving to take Doyoung’s. He couldn’t care less about germs at this present moment, “You love me.”

Time slows just for them, and when Taeyong finally gets enough of Doyoung, he pulls back to smile up at bright eyes, absolutely giddy with love. Chin propped on Doyoung’s chest, arms around Doyoung’s neck, he studies Doyoung’s every freckle, every dip and curve of his face, and recommits to memory the scar on the corner of his lips. At first, Doyoung did the same, eyes moving across Taeyong’s face, ring of brown thin around his pupils.

It’s too long a second later that his brows are pinching together, “What?”

“What?”

Doyoung’s hands clasp together over the small of Taeyong’s back, “You’re staring at me.”

“You’re staring at me too.”

“What are you thinking?”

Curious as he always is, Taeyong can’t help but break into a smile, “That I can’t believe it. This. You.” He hugs Doyoung a little tighter, pulls a strangled gasp from him. He thinks Doyoung’s frame to be thin, though he knows himself to be just a smidgen smaller. “I really can’t believe it.”

Amusement pulls on the sides of Doyoung’s mouth, “Why not?”

“I never imagined–” Taeyong starts, but trails off, suddenly advised by his sixth sense that maybe he shouldn’t finish that thought. Despite the drop of temperature in the room, he kisses Doyoung sweetly, “I just can’t.”

Doyoung frowns anyway, reading Taeyong far better than he does himself. His hand slides up Taeyong’s side, palm cool to where Taeyong’s neck’s practically aflame. He stares down sternly, the almond shape of his eyes so unbelievably mesmerizing that Taeyong finds his breath taken away all over again.

“I wish you wouldn’t think that.”

He understands Taeyong’s silence for a question.

“That you don’t deserve love.” Doyoung touches his cheek, “Because you do. You _do_ –”

“I know.” Taeyong meets his eyes, “I know I do. But I’m going to take–time. To rewire myself.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Doyoung quiets. “I don’t mean you have to change your whole perspective on–” he scrunches his nose, “–soulmarks. I just wished you wouldn’t–say that about yourself. I–”

“You didn’t believe it either.” He tangles his fingers into the hem of Doyoung’s sleep shirt, cotton cold, “You didn’t know what it was. What _this_ was when we first met, whether or not it was something you could believe in.” Doyoung shifts under Taeyong’s hands, “You believed in the fates too.”

It feels almost like another realm, standing in the kitchen with their hands on the other, unspeaking. Taeyong hears Doyoung think, watches Doyoung try and conjure means to deny it, that he did too believed in the fates, though significantly less than Taeyong did.

“But we’re here.”

Doyoung takes Taeyong by the hand, thumb tracing on the inside of Taeyong’s wrist, where marigold should lie. He brings it up to his lips; Taeyong stumbles close, noses brushing, “Here we are.”

“And you love me.”

“I do love you.” Doyoung kisses him, throws his arms around Taeyong, and tucks his face away, “I love you.”

Taeyong breathes in and wishes not for the moment to end, “I love you too, darling.”

_III. Come when the year’s first blossom blows_

December

Taeyong ignores the way Doyoung’s curiously watching him salivate over the baked goods lined up delectably along the aisle, eyes scanning the labels studiously. Chocolate chip cookies, double chocolate white-chocolate chip cookies, triple chocolate peanut butter fudge chunk, his mind dizzies at the choices, interrupted by Doyoung’s purposefully loud exhale and the way he’s leaning lazily against their empty grocery cart.

“It’ll just take a second,” Taeyong hums.

Doyoung props an elbow up on the red handle, cheek in his hand, “We’ve been here for an hour.”

“You’re so dramatic.” He takes another minute to debate between the array of choices, rolling his eyes when Doyoung feigns a little cheer when he finally decides on one. Taeyong leaves the plastic box of cookies in their cart, moving over to kiss his boyfriend on the cheek, “Happy now?”

“Yes.” Doyoung laces their fingers over where they’re pushing the cart together, shoulders and hips bumping with every step. He leads them down the aisle of produce, murmuring after a moment’s pause, “I don’t actually mind it, you know.”

“I know.” Taeyong tries to think if Youngho mentioned finishing the bananas or if he mentioned to not get bananas, “You just think sweets are bad for me.”

Doyoung presses a kiss to his temple, “They are.” He pulls away to tear a plastic bag off the roll, handing one to Taeyong before grabbing another for himself, “In case you don’t remember, you had that entire bag of Oreos after breakfast this morning.”

Taeyong makes a face, “I didn’t know you saw that.” He reads the signs boasting sweet apples and oranges and pears, convinced by them to pick any off the display, but he knows Doyoung has some secret technique to picking abnormally sweet fruits–a talent he’s proven over the past trips to the grocers they’ve taken together–so he waits for it to be done for him. “I thought you were in the shower.”

“I was,” Doyoung chooses a bunch of red apples, leaving them by the corner of their cart. He glances at Taeyong with a knowing smile, “You had crumbs on your mouth.”

Dumbly, Taeyong licks at his lips.

“And I tasted it when I kissed you.”

Taeyong folds his arms across his chest in silent defiance. It’s hardly the first time Doyoung’s stayed over, Taeyong’s well aware, yet he still struggles hearing his light-footed boyfriend in the mornings. Doyoung stays over whenever Youngho decides to camp out at Taeil’s, which has been increasingly often lately, not that Taeyong’s complaining. An empty apartment’s an excuse to have Doyoung over for dinner and a late-night movie until either of them fall asleep first, legs and arms tangled together–Taeyong finds those warmer mornings to be the best to wake to, Doyoung’s face inches from his.

It’s nice. There isn’t some intricate way Taeyong can think to describe it. It’s nice when he hears Doyoung wake first, arms thrown over his waist, hugging him close for a minute before he’s rolling out of bed for the bathroom. It’s nice when he feels the bed dip again when Doyoung returns with cold hands, coaxing him to curl further into their little embrace. It’s nice when Doyoung kisses him awake, morning breath forgotten, hands trailing down his back, but never straying too far.

It’s nice, being with Doyoung.

Even if he does insist on policing all of Taeyong’s meals.

“I’ve been eating healthy,” Taeyong hands him the plastic bag, mumbling about apricots and peaches. Doyoung picks a handful of each for him, “I don’t even have instant rice anymore.”

Doyoung reaches to place the bag away safely, and Taeyong catches his lips for a kiss, just because. He smiles wryly, “I know you hide them behind the sauces in the pantry.”

 _Oh._ Taeyong frowns, “Seriously, how could you possibly know that?”

Doyoung rolls his eyes, “I’m your boyfriend–I know you.” He starts to push the cart towards the next aisle, Taeyong following closely, “And I cook for you. I probably know your kitchen better than you do.”

Taeyong doesn’t know why he’s surprised, but he is anyway. _I’m your boyfriend–I know you._ It occurs to him that no one else knows him like Doyoung does. It occurs to him that he knows Doyoung not like he does with anyone else. He knows Doyoung’s likes, quirks, and habits–the Kim Doyoung folder of his mind now bursting with pages and pages he’s so delicately memorized–and he knows the most insignificant things about Doyoung–like how he didn’t like sleeping with his hair wet (so Taeyong always toweled it dry for him), like how he slept with two blankets (but he only needed one if he slept in Taeyong’s arms), like how he didn’t like the taste of mint toothpaste (so they switched to a lemon-lime infused one for whenever Doyougn stayed over).

It didn’t occur to him at all just how much he finally knew about Doyoung.

He tells this to Doyoung, over a spread of bananas, and Doyoung’s ears pink. His lips curve into a pleased smile, and Taeyong kisses it, not without feeling a surge of warmth in his own chest. He sticks close to Doyoung while they make their way through the store, ticking off their mental list of groceries as they went–Doyoung shopped for himself while Taeyong shopped for Youngho as well, though it’s becoming a recent habit that Youngho has all his meals at Taeil’s too.

“Is that all?” Taeyong asks, at the near end of their trip, looking worriedly into their cart nearly full to the brim. His apartment was only two blocks down, but it’ll still be a torturous walk home with groceries hanging from their arms. “Please tell me this is all we’re getting.”

Doyoung hums, checking the cart diligently. He snaps his fingers, “You need shampoo.”

“I do?”

“Yes,” he answers, leading the way. With a smile, “I threw the empty bottle out this morning.”

“Ah.” Taeyong toddles along, “So _you_ need shampoo.”

He gives Taeyong a loaded look and they bumble down towards the row of shampoos and conditioners, Taeyong holding onto the front of the cart as they went. He’s maneuvering them down the tightly fitted aisle when the edge of the cart knocks into a larger display on the left of the aisle, knocking a few samples to the ground.

Doyoung pulls the cart to a stop, “Babe–”

“Got it, got it,” Taeyong mumbles, dropping down to a crouch and scooping up the samples of– _oh_. His cheeks flush at the boxes in his hands, the descriptions of _Ultra-thin comfort! All natural–feel safe!_ burning bright into his eyes. _Oh my god_. He freezes in place, not knowing how to get up his hands full of–

“Are you okay?”

Doyoung’s shoes come into view then, the tips of his squeaky-clean sneakers against brightly colored boxes of pink, orange, and purple. Taeyong’s nape warms when Doyoung hovers behind him, evidently having read the sign marketing an array of condoms.

He lets out a soft, “Oh.”

The topic has never been brought to the table. It wasn’t an elephant in the room Taeyong felt the need to address, and Doyoung hadn’t mentioned a whisper on the matter either, so very naturally it was a non-conversation. There’s always been that invisible line either of them knew not to cross, some sort of boundary they’ve both tied themselves to; it lead to Taeyong literally rolling himself out of bed one morning when he thought his desires were going to get the better of him and he was going to force them to take a step they weren’t ready for.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want Doyoung–of course he wanted Doyoung, he could barely go a day without kissing the boy–and he thinks highly that Doyoung would want him too, but it’s just–not a topic they’ve ventured yet. Much like the entirety of whatever they were doing together–it’s uncharted territory. He isn’t about to take a leap forward just to get shoved two months back.

Taeyong bolts upright, shoving the boxes of condoms back into the display with as much as grace as a newborn giraffe, an animal form he seems to take on whenever Doyoung’s around. He holds onto the last box, the bright orange a pretty shade. Gods know what gives him the courage to laugh–or maybe it’s because Doyoung won’t stop _staring_ –but Taeyong does, turning to his boyfriend with what he hopes is a light-hearted one.

By the fates, he titters, “We’ll probably be getting some of these one day, right?”

 _Oh my god_.

The switch flips.

If they were in a comic strip, he would’ve seen Doyoung’s soul fly out of his body at that very instant the words left his lips.

“I mean–” Taeyong nearly crushes the box in his hand, “I didn’t mean to–”

“We should.”

Taeyong head’s rolls off his shoulders, “Huh?”

Doyoung blinks at him, blinks back into his body. His eyes dart from the condoms to the obvious look of incredulity ungracefully gracing Taeyong’s face, lips parting as he did so. His tongue peeks out in thought, anxiousness seeping into the space between them, biting into Taeyong’s skin.

 _We should_.

Moving without a brain, as if he hadn’t heard Doyoung say exactly just _that_ , Taeyong stuffs the box of condoms roughly into the display, jumping nearly foot into the air when it expectedly topples off and falls again to the ground. Skittishly, he picks it up and wrings at it, still in silent disbelief. Doyoung takes it gently from him, before he rips it into two, holding it between them.

Taeyong works to speak, “We should.” He can’t help himself, “You want to?”

Doyoung looks at him like he’s said something unthinkable, “What?” His lips pull into a frown, “Did you think I wouldn’t want to?”

“No, I just–” Taeyong takes Doyoung’s hand in his, needing the contact, “I–we’ve never talked about it. And now we are, in the middle of a grocery store.” He drops his voice low to not be overheard (or out of embarrassment), “Of course I want to. With you.”

Taeyong reaches out to touch the short hairs on the back of Doyoung’s neck, swiftly following the curve of his spine, feather soft. He grins when Doyoung shivers, suddenly griped by the desire to hold and be held, wanting there to be nothing between where he stands with Doyoung. With deft fingers he untucks Doyoung’s shirt and slides a hand up, stepping close to caress the bare skin softly, gently, tracing over the small of his back.

Doyoung’s shoulders hike up to his ears, surprisingly tensing under Taeyong’s touch–he hasn’t yet admitted it but Taeyong must be more than daft to miss the way Doyoung curled towards his hand whenever they slept. Doyoung licks his lips and Taeyong follows the motion like a dog and its bone. Knowing the way Doyoung’s mind spun, he takes a hold of Doyoung’s elbow, tries to search the younger’s features for any sort of inkling to what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling.

Sensing this, Doyoung turns his attention to the row of condoms, clearing his throat to say, “Should we just get these or–what else is there?”

“What’s wrong?” Taeyong says. Doyoung studies the shelves, “Hey.”

“Nothing’s wrong. We should just–”

“Kim Doyoung, don’t–”

“You know,” Doyoung pauses, “you only use my last name when you’re mad at me. _Kim Doyoung_ , like that.”

Taeyong ignores the attempt at a distraction, “Don’t shut me out.” Doyoung falters at the accusation, waiting for him to go on, “You do. Whenever you start to worry, you shut me out and you never want to talk.”

The bitter feeling is not unfamiliar to Taeyong.

“That’s not true,” Doyoung says. The guilt plain on his face betrays him and Taeyong feels sorry instead for the hurt that replaces it, “I talk to you. Out of everyone I know–I talk to you the most. You know me the best.” Piqued, “I don’t shut you out.”

Taeyong bites on the inside of his cheek to keep a smile from breaking free. Now’s not the time to relish in the fact that Doyoung trusts him the _most_ , in the soothing burst of heat spreading to his fingertips at the thought of it. He’s definitely felt so, over the months they’ve been together–Doyoung seeking him out in nights dotted with mares (“I haven’t slept this good in a long while”), Doyoung unveiling his secret, childhood dream of becoming a singer (“I’ve never told anyone that before”), Doyoung entrusting Taeyong to washing the precious bunny plushie he cherished so deeply (“Nobody’s ever touched Mu, except my mother”)–but the reminder is welcomed.

“I’m sorry.” Taeyong returns the orange box back to the shelf, freeing Doyoung’s hands to take them for himself, “I know you _talk_ to me, and I’m happy you do–I’m just–I’m not saying you’ve to tell me everything, but this–you’re worried about something, about us–” hushed, like he’s speaking of witchcraft, “–having _sex_ , Doyoung. Don’t sweep it under the rug, please?”

The moment is a moment too long, “Have you ever?”

Realization hits Taeyong like a truck, but he gathers enough to say, “No.” Doyoung’s incredulity shines like a lighthouse; Taeyong does his best not to roll his eyes, “I’ve done–I’ve had–” the words are painful to speak, but Doyoung remains as stoic, listening intently, “I haven’t been in a–situation where either of us needed one. A condom.”

“Oh.” Doyoung is terrible at hiding his relief, correcting himself, “I know it doesn’t matter–it shouldn’t matter–but I–”

“You just want to know,” Taeyong finishes for him. Doyoung nods, almost miserably, almost enough for Taeyong to regret yanking it out of him. With a past as clean as Doyoung’s, Taeyong skips over asking the redundants to pull Doyoung into a bone-crushing hug. Easily, “I love you, dummy.”

“I love you,” Doyoung returns, pressing his cheek to Taeyong’s temple. Nervously, he laughs, “You can–teach me.”

Taeyong snorts, burying his face into Doyoung’s sweater, into Doyoung’s scent–some mix of him naturally and Taeyong’s fresh apple shampoo–and squirming, “I told you, I’ve never even–would you even want to–” He closes his eyes, “Let’s just–buy what we need. We can figure it out together.”

“Tonight?”

Doyoung, with effort, untangles them to look right at Taeyong. His right hand lifts to graze Taeyong’s cheek, left trailing down to sneak ever so slightly under the band of Taeyong’s jeans. There’s enough time to pull away, enough time to say _no_. And it can’t possibly be the lights overhead but Taeyong swears he sees a darkness shroud Doyoung’s eyes.

Taeyong represses a shudder and twists to kiss at Doyoung’s soulmark, “Tonight.”

The trip home has never been made quicker. Doyoung heads straight for the kitchen after kicking his shoes off, hands flying to sort their groceries; ice cream in the freezer, pasta noodles in the pantry. Taeyong sends a quick text to Youngho with a pointed _Don’t come home tonight_ , and tucks his phone away, body tingling with anticipation. He goes to the bathroom first to clean up–this much he knows–since they’ve agreed who’s to catch tonight.

He gets back just as Doyoung’s organizing the vegetable drawer. Nerves forbid him to stay rooted to the spot so he moves to help clear the paper bags away, only to find that Doyoung’s left the orange box of condoms and a brand-new bottle of lube in one of them.

“I’m–”

Taeyong’s head snaps up, as if he were caught in a heinous act, watching Doyoung stare him down.

Then, he’s seized.

Doyoung’s hands are on his face, on his waist, his breath is on Taeyong’s lips, his lips on Taeyong’s lips. Heavily, Taeyong stumbles backwards and Doyoung–what is he even doing anymore, Taeyong doesn’t know–pushes him, or Taeyong pulls–and they fumble the entire way to the bedroom, the paper bag still clutched tightly in Taeyong’s grip. Taeyong squeezes his eyes shut, lets Doyoung kiss him sweet, guide him until the backs of his knees hit the edge of his bed.

They leave the light closed, draping the room in light from the hall and the moon. Taeyong takes a long moment, heart overflowing at the want in Doyoung’s eyes. He shuffles back until his head lands on the fluff of pillows, legs thrashing to kick the comforter off, unmade from their late morning. Doyoung crawls after him, a sight Taeyong will never forget, their chins knocking in a string of messy kisses, the slide of lips and a hint of tongue. Where his hands are on Doyoung, it’s all electric. He kisses Doyoung, flushing with heat when Doyoung kisses back, hands flying to his waist like a reflex. The paper bag lies forgotten for now.

It’s dangerous, when Doyoung kisses him; it makes him feel like he’s losing all control, makes him go all muddled in the head when Doyoung pushes him into beds and couches and against walls and doors. When Doyoung kisses him again, his hands are always over Taeyong’s clothes, touching and feeling but never roaming far enough. When Doyoung kisses him, Taeyong loses his mind and he can’t get it together quick enough to stop Doyoung from pulling away when it gets too much.

Tonight, it’s different.

Taeyong moans softly when Doyoung moves to leave kisses along his jaw, working his way up to the lobe of Taeyong’s ear and taking it between his lips. Taeyong’s jeans are too tight across his crotch; he trembles with anticipation when he takes a leap of faith to slot Doyoung’s thigh between his, shaking at the relieving pressure it brings. Above him, Doyoung groans quietly against the side of his mouth, hand traveling down to the curve of Taeyong’s ass to rest there infuriatingly.

“Doyoung,” he whispers, canting his hips up, pulling moans from them both. Desperation has never clawed so deep. Against his thigh, Doyoung’s want reflects his own. He rolls his hips again, hands rucking up the hem of Doyoung’s irritating sweater to hold onto Doyoung’s waist, bare skin on his palm. Doyoung cradles him by the neck, returning his attention to Taeyong for an open-mouthed kiss. His skin is smooth under his hands, warm, “I want you.”

They move without words after.

When Doyoung breaks them apart after what feels like hours of hands and lips and tongue and sweet words, Taeyong catches his breath. Their clothes lie in a pile at the foot of the bed, and Taeyong has no time to think about it because Doyoung is emptying the contents of the paper bag, box and lube dropping onto the bed. With shaky hands, he rips free a foil packet from the orange box. He lies, waits, tries to calm his heaving chest while watching Doyoung struggle with the lube’s plastic packaging. It’s some water-based, _s_ _uper_ glide recommended by Amazon they decided on after a hasty Google search done on Doyoung’s phone. Together, they figure a way to get it open and Taeyong is on his back once more, legs falling apart ungracefully easy for Doyoung to settle between on his haunches.

His thighs, a milky pale–Taeyong yearns to have his lips on there, leaving marks for just them both to see, needs to have Doyoung under him, writhing, moaning, begging for release. He thinks of how much he wants to hold onto Doyoung, stroking, caressing, squeezing–the physical touch, he craves it so badly. He thinks of how this–all of the touching, the whispering, the _loving_ –he wants it. He wants it, and he can’t think of ever going a day without it.

Unaware of Taeyong’s salacious fantasies, for too long, Doyoung merely stares, white bottle in hand.

A million words sound off in Taeyong’s mind, but he says only one, “ _Please_.”

Doyoung’s fingers, Taeyong lewdly thinks, are far, far, _far_ better than his own. The thin, silver rings he liked to have, four or five spread across both hands, so mesmerizing in a way that makes Taeyong’s gut coil red-hot with desire–they rest quietly on the bedside table; Taeyong’d pulled them off one by one, licking Doyoung’s fingers as he did, hypnotizing Doyoung with every swipe of his tongue.

Taeyong chokes on a breath when Doyoung’s up to three, heart splitting at the thought of those pretty digits in him, stretching him. The ceiling spins so he screws his eyes shut, too much gone into feeling the touch of Doyoung’s fingers– _oh_ how he had such an adoration for them, he’ll never say–that breathing seems more like a chore. His hands are tangled tight in the sheets, head thrown back into his pillows, so far back that if he arched further off the bed–and into Doyoung–he’s on the edge of sinking through the mattress and hitting the ground.

“Okay,” he gasps, reaching blindly for the lube by the side of his hip, impatient, impatient, _impatient_. He uncaps it and pulls Doyoung down, moaning into Doyoung’s open mouth when his fingers slip out. Taeyong groans, hating the emptiness. He coats his palm generously, reaching down between their heated bodies to ready Doyoung, to guide him close.

“–my _god_ ,” is all Doyoung whispers, arms buckling to fall face first by the side of Taeyong’s head. His hips jerk forward in a stutter. He doesn’t stay still for long, moving to leave wet kisses down Taeyong’s ear and neck, breath hot, whispering words Taeyong’s too preoccupied to decipher.

It’s trial and error and fumbling and stumbling before Taeyong climbs atop, sitting tall over Doyoung, head where his own had been. He moves, hips rolling with Doyoung’s hand a guide on his waist, the other on back of his thigh, squeezing him hard. Doyoung whispers, moans, words Taeyong can’t hear, his ears are ringing from the pleasure shooting through his entire frame. He rocks slow, face tilted to the ceiling, mouth agape as he rides Doyoung, panting.

“–yong.”

“Yes.”

Doyoung reaches up to place a hand on Taeyong’s sternum, thrusting at an angle that touches Taeyong so _good,_ touches Taeyong where he’s never been touched, he thinks. He looks down just as Doyoung tells him, “Beautiful.”

Taeyong moans, loud and embarrassing but he doesn’t care because his back is pressed to the bed again, Doyoung reclaiming his position over him. Doyoung kisses him like a worship, and Taeyong accepts it, the love blooming in his chest.

Their movements turn frenzy and Taeyong thrashes when Doyoung’s hand leaves his hip to touch him, thumb over slit, the softness of his fingers, the warmth of his palm, enough to bring Taeyong to a finish first. Doyoung follows, heat coating Taeyong’s insides, if it weren’t for the rubber between. Blissed out, Doyoung drops onto him, mumbling an apology when Taeyong exhales heavily, breath knocked out of him. He moves to wrap his arms around Doyoung’s waist, slick with sweat, pressing his lips to Doyoung’s hair, kissing him tenderly.

Later, Doyoung slips free and he leaves their warm bed–even at Taeyong’s objections–to dispose of the rubber. Taeyong lets his eyes fall shut, still trying to level his breathing, completely spent. Any other day, he would’ve wished for a shower, but all he wants now is Doyoung in his arms and night’s sleep He hears Doyoung putter around the bathroom, then out the hall, only opening his eyes again when he feels the mattress dip. He returns in boxers, carrying another pair in his hands and a wash cloth. Not sparing time to stare, Taeyong pushes himself onto his elbows to kiss Doyoung sweet.

“I love you,” he says, letting Doyoung tilt him back down onto pillows, lying flat for Doyoung to wipe him down. Doyoung returns the sentiment with another kiss, soft and slow, and Taeyong is ready to succumb to sleep when he hears a bottle being uncapped.

He would’ve shot up, lower back screaming as he did, if Doyoung’s hand wasn’t on his chest, placating.

“Relax,” Doyoung laughs, voice rough. He smiles, and Taeyong spots the thin, metal band of his retainers over the top row of his teeth. After _sex_ and Doyoung can still think to consider nightly routines; Taeyong decides that it’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen. Doyoung lifts a small, blue-purple bottle, “It’s just lotion.”

“You–”

“Bought it earlier.” Doyoung squeezes some of it onto a finger, and Taeyong’s cheeks redden at the sight. “I–read that it would hurt. After. I mean obviously, so I–thought if either us needed it–” he smiles unsurely, “it’s specially made for–this.”

Taeyong nods, speechless, pulling Doyoung close to distract himself with a kiss while Doyoung moves to coat over the sensitive furl. All his will goes into making sure he doesn’t get hard again, an incredible feat considering he’s spent the entire night drooling over Doyoung’s hands and fingers. Doyoung traces over the opening over and over, rubbing circles and dipping in just the slightest, soft and gentle, and–

“Okay,” Taeyong wheezes, “If you keep–I’m going to–”

Doyoung laughs into the kiss, “Okay, okay.”

He scurries off to wash his hands and put the wash cloth away, grinning madly when Taeyong extends the comforter out to him for them both to hide under. Taeyong immediately kisses him again, refusing to let Doyoung out of his grasp for even a second tonight. It’s a lazy kiss that Doyoung abides, and Taeyong huddles himself closer and licks the inside of Doyoung’s mouth, even to taste the metal and the acrylic plate on the roof of his mouth.

When his neck starts to strain, Taeyong settles back onto his side of the pillow.

“I love you.” Doyoung tells him, breath warm in the small space between them, cozy under the comforter, entwined with something else Taeyong can’t yet place. _It’s love_ , his mind says, just as Doyoung takes his hand, pressing the side of the wrist to his lips, “I really love you.”

Taeyong hooks their legs together, the pleasuring soreness down his back a welcomed one.

“I really love you too.”

_IV. Come when the summer gleams and glows_

January

Yuta and Youngho bicker on dinner options for about fifteen minutes before Taeyong decides the weather is way too cold for them to be standing out on the sidewalk, making the executive decision for them to head towards the old diner near 49th. Thankfully, it appeases the crowd and Taeyong finds himself shivering in a bright red booth not ten minutes later. Yuta slides to sit on his right, and Youngho takes the seat across them.

“I feel like I haven’t seen you guys in ages,” Youngho says over the stacks of menus. He plucks one out and flips through greasy pages, “Ooh, I’m feeling steak-y tonight.”

“The steaks are dry here, get a reuben.” Yuta flicks to a page full of sandwiches, pointing with the butt of his fork for Youngho to follow. Taeyong keeps his arms folded in his parka, teeth still chattering from the chill of the evening wind. “And what’re you talking about, we just had dinner together last Sunday.”

Youngho settles on a _pastrami reuben_ under Yuta’s recommendation, “But that was _all_ of us. This is just us three–like old times.”

Yuta snorts, “This is probably the first in my life I’ve heard you not want Taeil right next to you at every waking moment.”

“Not true,” Youngho slides the menu over to Taeyong, who still hasn’t warmed up enough to join the conversation. His phone buzzes in his pocket, praying sincerely his fingers don’t fall off when he fishes around for it.

 _Did you make it up safe?_ Doyoung’s text reads.

 _Yeah_. Taeyong’s hands are too numb for proper sentences, _Freezing._

The reply is immediate, _Told you to grab an extra jacket._

 _I was already out of the house_.

 _Liar_.

Taeyong doesn’t need to see Doyoung to know that he’s rolling his eyes; Doyoung’s constant nagging around the clock is probably one of the latest revelations of their relationship. Taeyong hasn’t yet figured if it’s something he’ll grow to love, but so far–it’s been something new, having someone care for him like this.

Doyoung’s text continues, _You were in the hall._

_Hallway. Which is outside my apartment._

_You deserve to be freezing_. Taeyong snorts, Doyoung’s voice clear in his mind. _You could’ve gone back in to grab one in two seconds._

_Some boyfriend you are, I’m cold._

Taeyong pictures Doyoung’s look of derisory, _Then I hope the winds get worse and you stay freezing the entire night._ But almost immediately it’s followed by, _I love you. Don’t catch a cold._

_I love you too, darling._

When Taeyong tucks his phone away, Youngho’s only just trailing off a long spiel, “–still wish it whenever I wake up without him in my arms.”

“Revolting, Johns.” Yuta decides on some variation of a grilled chicken sandwich, “Aren’t you moving in with him soon anyway? Jaehyun mentioned he was moving up closer to work.”

Taeyong looks up at that. Between his late nights at the company and Youngho’s early mornings in the studio, they haven’t really had any time over the past weeks to sit and discuss the changes regarding their housing situation. While Yuta moved out of their apartment and in with Jaehyun the moment the boy was out of CSU’s residential dorms, Taeyong and Youngho shared the cozy little apartment all throughout their final years of university and then some months after graduation. He knew Youngho would want to move out with Taeil someday, but it’d just never come up in any of their conversations. He assumed that it wouldn’t be a day he’d have to see so soon.

“I don’t know,” Youngho says. A waitress swings by with two iced waters and a warm one for Taeyong, grabbing their orders too. On a whim, Taeyong picks whatever it is his pointer finger lands on (a cheeseburger with fries on the side). She collects their menus and promises to return with their dinners. “I want to, but we haven’t really talked about it, I guess.”

“Why not?”

“We haven’t really talked about other things.”

Yuta swipes at the condensation on his glass, “Like what?”

“Like a ring.” Youngho picks at a loose thread on his sleeve, “Like a giant ring in our foreseeable future if we move in together. A big, giant ring.”

Yuta’s knee stops bouncing from where it had been since they sat down. “And you don’t want the big, giant ring?”

“I want the ring.” Youngho sighs. He stares at the soapstone tabletop, “Of course I want the ring. I’m always thinking about the ring. I already know which ring is _the_ ring. I mean, I have some ideas on what the ring should look like. What he would want the ring to look like.”

Taeyong uncurls from himself to reach for his mug, warming up, “Silver or gold?”

On reflex, “White gold.” He catches himself, “Alright, no, the thing is–” Youngho goes back to fiddling with his sleeves, “We haven’t talked about the ring. We’ve never talked about the ring or even _a_ ring. There’s no ring right now.”

Taeyong bites on his lip, “There’s one ring.”

“Yeah.” Yuta snickers, “One ring to rule them all.”

“Really,” Youngho deadpans. “Here I am talking about important life-changing decisions and there you two sit, quoting _The Lord of the Rings_ back to me.”

“Sorry,” they mumble in unison. Taeyong sets his mug down, “This is going to be your third year together, Youngho, I’m plenty sure Taeil’s thought of getting you a ring as much as you have for him.”

“But what if he doesn’t want a ring?”

Yuta stops, “What? Why wouldn’t he want a ring?”

“Yuta–”

“Are you being serious right now?”

Taeyong shrinks into the booth, hearing Yuta’s voice harden. If Youngho thought Taeyong’s knowledge on soulmarks and fate and destiny were inadequate thanks to his lack of a soulmate over the past two years, he couldn’t argue at all with Yuta–the first of them three to have his soulmark color in. Furtively, Taeyong casts a glance to Yuta’s soulmark, humming a shade cooler than Youngho’s.

Youngho’s deflates, “I don’t know.” Yuta sighs again, making Youngho wring his hands, “Okay, I _do_ know, I just–we haven’t talked about it. Getting a ring. Any ring.”

“Bring it up the next time you see him and ask him if it’s something he has in mind.” Taeyong thumbs the edge of his napkin, “You wouldn’t know until you do.” Youngho sits back against the booth, staring at Taeyong with a look of fascination, “What?”

“Aren’t you going to tell me that I should just go ahead and get the ring? Fate and soulmarks, and all?” In his best Taeyong-voice, “ _Your soulmarks are a sign of fate. It’s fate that you’re going to marry–get the ring, dummy._ ”

“Hey–”

“Please,” Yuta says. “He’s just got massive real estate on honeymoon island with Kim Doyoung. It’s where the birds sing of Elton John and the water tastes like wine and the powers of fate don’t matter.”

Taeyong balks, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

It’s Youngho’s turn to laugh now, “It means twenty-year-old Taeyong would’ve bitten my head off if I even remotely doubted fate.”

“I didn’t say anything about doubting the fates,” Taeyong tries not to sound too defensive. How did they even get to talking about him–they were just onto Youngho and his one ring. “I just said to talk to him about it first.”

“Come _on_ ,” Youngho rests his elbows against the tabletop, “If I’d said this this time last year, you would’ve told me I was being stupid for having any sort of worry over the future. You would’ve dragged me to that Tiffany’s six blocks down from here without hesitation.”

Taeyong finds that tough to refute, “That’s not true.”

“Cut him some slack.” Yuta waves at Youngho dismissively, “He’s changed his mind. This is good.”

“I didn’t–”

“Alright, you didn’t change your mind. Kim Doyoung did.” Yuta tears the wrapper to his straw, “You didn’t think soulmarks mattered to you since you don’t have one–” Taeyong winces inwardly at the words, “–and you thought that _that_ was your fate. But now Kim Doyoung’s changed your mind, you’ve changed his. Soulmarks matter to _you_ and you couldn’t care less about fate. It’s okay that you changed your mind.”

Youngho supplies an affirmative nod.

At Taeyong’s silence, Yuta sighs, “Don’t get upset, Yong. It’s called evolution.”

“Yeah,” Youngho dodges when Yuta chucks the balled-up paper wrapper at his head. He flicks it back at Yuta, “And I don’t know–I mean, our anniversary’s coming up and I really do want to move in with him–”

“Ask him,” Yuta says. “Even if you do end up moving in with him, there isn’t going to be a ring until you’re both ready for it.”

Taeyong is still swimming in their words when their waiter swings by with their dinners and three sets of cutleries. She leaves after wishing them a good meal, and Youngho takes no time in digging in. After a mouthful, “I’m ready for the ring. I just don’t know if he’s ready for the ring.”

“Well,” Yuta steals a fry from Taeyong’s plate. “You could spend the rest of your life wondering or you could, I don’t know, _ask_ him about it.”

“You make it sound like a walk in the park,” Youngho stabs at his sandwich. “What if asking about a ring makes him realize he wished I didn’t ask about a ring?”

Taeyong can’t follow.

Neither can Yuta, “I honestly don’t know what we’re talking about anymore–we’ve said the word ‘ring’ too much, it’s just confusing me now.” He shakes his head, “And you’re making it sound like it’s not something both of you obviously want.” He nudges Taeyong in the ribs, “Help me out here.”

Taeyong swallows the bite of burger in his mouth, “You should ask him.”

“See?” Yuta gestures vaguely to Taeyong, “A changed person.”

“Ask him to marry me?”

“Are you ready for that?” Taeyong watches Youngho pick out pickles from his sandwich. His phone buzzes in his pocket. He grapples for it with greasy fingers, speaking as he does, “Just ask him–ask him what he thinks of marriage.”

“We _are_ going to get married one day,” Youngho clarifies. “It’s just a matter of when.” 

_I love you back,_ Doyoung’s text reads. Then another, _I love you more, I love you most. I love you love you love you love you._

Taeyong bites down hard on his tongue, warmth crawling across his neck and cheeks and shoulders, moments away from combusting right here in this very booth. Leaving his phone face down on the table, he dazedly reaches for a fry. A simple text from Doyoung has his heart racing like he’s just run up the side of a skyscraper. And fate, Taeyong thinks, is something he doesn’t know what to make of any longer. Soulmark or not, he loves Doyoung in a way he’s never loved before, in a way he’s never been loved before.

Pushing his thoughts away, Taeyong concludes, “At this rate, I feel like it’s going to be a lot sooner than what you might have planned in mind.”

“You just want me to move out.” Youngho dispels Taeyong’s look of insult, “So Doyoung can move in. He’s going to want to move in, I assume, after he graduates?”

Taeyong hasn’t thought of that (in depth). “I don’t know, we haven’t talked about it.”

“That doesn’t sound all that bad a plan, asking him to move in with you,” Yuta says. “He’s going to want to stay here, right?”

Taeyong shrinks, “I don’t know. I think so. I hope so.”

The table is uncharacteristically quiet for a full minute. The idea of Doyoung leaving–it hasn’t come up. He’d always assumed Doyoung would want to stay, he’s never mentioned otherwise since the last they’d discussed it, even if it were so briefly. The thought of it–he doesn’t want to sleep alone tonight. He wipes at his fingers with a napkin, sending a quick message to Doyoung again, _I love you too. Come over tonight?_

The reply is instant, _‘Course. Text me when you get home, I’ll come over after._

“I should propose.” Youngho breaks the silence in a tone Taeyong doesn’t know isn’t entirely sarcasm, but he’s glad the conversation’s moved away from him. “Propose, move in, life happily ever after.”

“I think you’re missing a couple of steps there, Johns.”

Youngho’s nose crinkles, “This is all very confusing, and it shouldn’t be confusing.”

Taeyong pauses mid-bite, “I don’t think it’s confusing at all. You’re just making it sound confusing.”

“I’m confused.”

Yuta groans, “Let me break it down for you–ask Taeil what he thinks about marriage. If he’s up for it, ask to move in with him, buy the ring and propose in six months. If he isn’t up for it, we reconvene here in two weeks.” His lips twitch, “Happy hour starts at seven.”

Youngho dips a fry into the pool of ketchup on Taeyong’s plate, “Does this feel like a regular dinner table conversation topic? Discussing a friend’s possible change of marital status?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Yuta takes one of the discarded pickles from Youngho’s plate, “My only friends are really only you two idiots.”

_Come with the winter’s drifting snows_

February

“Happy birthday, darling.”

Doyoung kisses him over the lighted candles, whispers to his lips, “I love you.”

Taeyong finds himself blushing in the dark, “I love you too.” He lifts the wobbly yet presentable single-layered fruit cake he’d spent the last five hours slogging over, trying his best not to mess up the writing on the top, _Happy birthday, my love_.

“Did you really make this?” Doyoung asks, skeptical in way that both compliments and offends Taeyong.

“Depends. If it’s good, I definitely made it.” Taeyong grins, “If it isn’t–remember: you love me.”

“You’ve poisoned it, haven’t you?”

Taeyong pretends to think about it, “Not intentionally, I don’t think. Make a wish.”

Doyoung wishes, eyes squeezed shut, smile pulled wide. Taeyong watches him mouth the words, grinning when Doyoung opens his eyes to blow the candles out. For a fleeting moment before they’re wrapped further in darkness, Taeyong swears all Doyoung does is stare at him, softness in his eyes, hidden quickly with the dark of the night. It takes a moment for his vision to return, adjusting to only moonlight flooding the apartment. When his vision comes to, Taeyong glances around, gathering his bearings.

Traces of Doyoung are evident in the apartment–two pots of succulents on the windowsill by the kitchen (Doyoung won them at a sustainability themed market and was carrying them home when he picked Taeyong from work, their daily routine now. He’d stayed the night and the plants simply never left, despite his constant worry that Taeyong would overwater them.); his laptop rests on the couch, charger plugged to the wall outlet (Doyoung very much enjoyed lying across the tiny two-seater couch, legs dangling over the side of the armrest. Taeyong isn’t clear when he started referring it to _Doyoung’s spot_ , but Youngho had pointed it out some weeks ago.); a neon orange mug sits on the coffee table, with _I HAVE THE BEST BOYFRIEND_ printed comically across the side. It was Taeyong’s gag gift to Doyoung during their third month together (Doyoung returned the sentiment with an ugly sweater he hand-knitted, a terrifying combination of purple and green fuzzy, itchy wool that Taeyong only wore because it made Doyoung smile–unaffected by whether it was with pride at the finished sweater or the joy of watching Taeyong embarrassed.)

“What did you wish for?” Taeyong sets the cake gently onto the coffee table when Doyoung curls an arm around his waist, interests elsewhere.

“Can’t tell you,” Doyoung kisses him again, softly, gently, holding onto him like he meant everything. The darkness made Taeyong feel exposed, yet heartened all the same. He winds his arms around Doyoung’s neck, fingers twisting in his hair, “It won’t come true if I do.”

Taeyong pulls him down to lick at Doyoung’s lips, “Mm.”

“What if you had a wish?” Doyoung asks, already walking forward to lean Taeyong against the closest wall to them. He clings onto Doyoung until he feels the steadiness of concrete on his back, “If you had a wish–what would you wish for?”

In that space before his mind works for an answer, Taeyong remembers wishing to meet his soulmate. Remembers wishing not to meet his soulmate, remembers wishing his soulmate to stay far away, remembers wishing to never have a soulmate.

He remembers what it was like before Doyoung came traipsing along. Before Doyoung existed in his life, there wasn’t even a thought of being in love, of having a love. He remembers watching Yuta and Youngho and being so evilly envious, of nights where he reassured himself that loads of people stay single by choice, that he could do it too–even though he didn’t want that at all, he knew he could convince himself he did. He remembers wanting Doyoung. He can’t think of another way to explain how much he wanted love, how much he missed it whenever Doyoung camped out on campus instead of coming over for dinner, how he had to stop himself from texting Doyoung to _come over_ just so they could share a bed, just so he could have Doyoung beside him again in the morning. He wanted love, he wanted only Doyoung.

Nothing else could compare.

“I’d wish for you.”

Doyoung stills, “Me?”

“Yeah, you.” Doyoung’s eyes are bright under the enamoring light of the moon. Taeyong promises with a rock in his throat, “I’d waste all my wishes on you.” Like lightening, his lips move before Doyoung’s can, “So–move in with me?”

Doyoung sucks in a breath, “What?”

Taeyong is thankful for the wall behind him, else he would’ve fallen to the ground under the fervor of Doyoung’s gaze, “It’s just–Youngho’s been talking. About moving out to live with Taeil, and I’d have this place to myself. I’d have an extra room,” he swallows thickly; Doyoung follows, “You could stay here. If you want.”

“An extra room?” Doyoung’s lips twitch, “You’d have me sleep in the other room?”

His teasing lilt alleviates the stone in Taeyong’s heart. Taeyong rolls his eyes, “I will if you keep making fun of me.” He kisses away the affronted look Doyoung shoots him, “I mean–”

“Of course I’d move in with you,” Doyoung kisses him, hands warm on Taeyong’s waist. They maneuver to the couch in their web of arms and legs, settling together; Taeyong hooks a leg across Doyoung’s thigh, “Actually–Youngho mentioned something about moving out the other day.”

Taeyong tilts his head in question.

“I ran into him and Yuta downtown,” Doyoung explains, “I was looking for a place to get some work done because Kun had his boyfriend over and–” he gestures haphazardly; Taeyong understands. “Anyway, they saw me in a café and came in to say hi while they got a couple of drinks. They sat down for a bit and it sort of came up.”

Taeyong blinks, “So you knew I was going to ask you to move in?”

“No! No,” Doyoung takes his hands, “I didn’t know if you were going to ask me, but I–hoped you were going to.”

“Sneaky,” Taeyong accuses, furrowing his brows and squinting at Doyoung, who deflates in defeat. He plays with the rings on Doyoung’s fingers to tell him he isn’t _actually_ mad, why would he be? He didn’t plan on asking Doyoung to move in tonight, but now that it’s out there, “But I’m glad I did.”

Doyoung’s eyes follow as Taeyong moves his rings around, “I’m glad you did too.”

“I sat on it because–well, because I was worried you’d say no.”

“No?”

Taeyong holds onto one of the rings, twisted sterling silver, “I didn’t know if you wanted to stay here in the city. Or if you wanted to go back to your hometown. We haven’t really–talked about it and I always assumed you were going to stay, but when Yuta asked me about it, it just got me thinking.”

“I’m staying.” Doyoung rests his head against the back of the couch, fingers trailing along Taeyong’s arm, “I’ve always wanted to stay.”

“But are you staying for me?”

Doyoung stills. After thinking, he says, “I can’t answer that.” Taeyong glances up in exasperation before bringing his attention back to the ring again, “Hear me out–if I say _no_ , you’re going to sulk. If I say _yes_ , you’re going to tell me I shouldn’t, aren’t you?”

Taeyong’s lip juts out on reflex at Doyoung’s well-made point, but he catches himself lest he’s told, _See? You’re already sulking!_

“I’m being serious,” he sighs, slipping the ring onto his own finger; it’s a little loose and it doesn’t look as nice.

“So am I.”

Taeyong bristles, “Don’t be annoying.” Despite the bite in his words, he takes Doyoung’s stray hand and covers his own, “I want you to do what’s best for yourself. Whatever it is–as long as it’s the best decision for you.” He already knows Doyoung’s ready to argue, so he says, “Don’t make any decisions because of me.”

Doyoung stares, incredulous, “How could I not?” Taeyong’s heart bursts through the roof, but Doyoung’s hold keeps him grounded, “You’re–you’re you. I love you, I want to be with you.”

Taeyong kisses him sweet, moving into a curl to rest his head on Doyoung’s shoulder, “I love you too. So in love with you.” Doyoung accepts this, kissing his crown and snaking his arms around Taeyong’s waist, “When you graduate, I could help you find a job–I don’t know if my company’s hiring, but the publishing company Yuta works for is always looking for interns? Or I could ask Taeil if there’re any positions at open at his new post?”

Doyoung makes a noncommittal _hm_ , “That’s still a long way from now.” He sighs, “How did we even get here?”

“Well, I asked you to move in with me and that pretty much involves you being in the same state as I am.”

“ _Well_ ,” Doyoung says, “I’m staying. And yes, I would very much like to move in with you.”

Taeyong lets the words sink in. Apart from Yuta and Youngho, he hadn’t lived with anyone else. He didn’t think much about it; there wasn’t some dream he had to have a house with the one he loved. To have succulents on his windowsill or things that weren’t his strewn around his apartment, he didn’t think he’d want it. But with Doyoung, he does. He wants everything with Doyoung.

“We’ll have to get a bigger bed,” Taeyong says, instead of the mushy words floating around his mind. “And we could turn Youngho’s room into a spare one, or an office.”

“Whatever you’d like,” Doyoung tells him.

Taeyong’s heart eases, even though he hadn’t thought it were weighed by anything. With Doyoung’s objection, he untangles himself to scurry into his bedroom and return with a small box wrapped neatly in silver paper. Doyoung remains on the couch, staring up at Taeyong with eyes that reflects question.

“For you.” Taeyong sinks down beside him, holding the palm sized box right under Doyoung’s nose, “Happy birthday, darling.”

“I thought–” Doyoung takes it with careful hands, but he gives it only a sparing glance. “I thought we agreed no gifts.”

Taeyong shrugs, “I changed my mind.”

“You’re always changing your mind–”

“Just open it!”

Doyoung purses his lips. He murmurs a quiet _thank you_ and awards Taeyong a kiss before he does as he’s told, unwrapping the gift slowly, meticulous with the ribbon and wrapper. The box is black all around, and Taeyong watches impatiently while Doyoung fiddles with it. Eventually, it’s opened to reveal a bifold wallet–handmade, smooth, genuine black leather with a simple design on the corner of it. It’s the one Doyoung had been eyeing on their walk down 59th some many moons ago.

“This–” Doyoung holds in his hands, “Isn’t it from–”

Taeyong grins, absurdly glad Doyoung remembers too. “Yeah.”

“But this,” Doyoung opens it to pull the authenticity card out, the brand staring up at him. “This is _expensive_ , Taeyong.”

In truth, Taeyong’d already expected Doyoung to say so. Prepared, he says, “Your old wallet was falling apart and I wanted to get you a new one–a good one.”

Doyoung slides the card back into the slot, “I can’t accept this, I really–”

“It’s a gift,” Taeyong insists. He takes the box away, placing it at the far corner of the coffee table, out of Doyoung’s reach, “I want you to have it. It makes me happy knowing that you’ll use it.”

Doyoung’s shoulders slump in defeat, “You’re spoiling me.”

“I want to.” Taeyong raises a brow, sly grin to match, “So, really, doesn’t this make me your sugar–”

“ _No_ ,” Doyoung groans. He fumbles with the wallet, then sighs again. “You really do spoil me.”

“I’ve never had anyone to spoil.” Taeyong plucks the wallet from Doyoung’s hands, setting it aside to push him back onto the couch. Naturally, his legs spread over Doyoung’s hips, folding forward to kiss Doyoung leisurely. “Who else am I supposed to spoil, if not you?”

“But I–”

“I’m your boyfriend,” Taeyong says, like he’s announcing the weather. “I should be able to spoil you whenever I want to.”

“I want to spoil you too,” Doyoung mumbles. He frowns, so Taeyong reaches to thumb at his lip, “After I graduate, when I get a job–”

“Whenever,” Taeyong says. He kisses Doyoung’s bottom lip chastely, and a small _smack_ sounds when he pulls away, Doyoung continues to sulk; Taeyong sighs, “At least tell me if you like it?”

“Of course I do,” Doyoung rests his hands on Taeyong’s hips. His eyes soften at the memory, “It’s the one we saw–on our first date together.”

”I had fun picking it out, saying _I’m picking a gift for my boyfriend_ ,” Taeyong tells him. He rolls his hips slowly, sinuously, smug when Doyoung moans brokenly. Words get to Doyoung easiest. “It was worth it, being able to brag about it. Even though it took me hours to finally decide on it and my legs were dead-set on killing me.”

“Oh?” Doyoung’s fingers dig hungrily, “How should I make it up to you then?”

“Just love me.”

Doyoung pulls him down for a kiss, whispers against his lips, “I do love you. I’ll always love you.”

“I love you too,” Taeyong smiles, pushing his tongue past Doyoung’s lips to lick him slowly, “We have forever, don’t we? Promise me?”

Doyoung can’t agree any quicker, “I promise.”


	3. Chapter 3

Loving you less than life, a little less  
Than bitter-sweet upon a broken wall  
Or brush-wood smoke in autumn, I confess  
I cannot swear I love you not at all. 

For there is that about you in this light—  
A yellow darkness, sinister of rain—  
Which sturdily recalls my stubborn sight  
To dwell on you, and dwell on you again. 

And I am made aware of many a week  
I shall consume, remembering in what way  
Your brown hair grows about your brow and cheek 

And what divine absurdities you say:  
Till all the world, and I, and surely you,  
Will know I love you, whether or not I do.

_\-- “Loving you less than life, a little less”_ (revised) _,_ Edna St. Vincent Millay

\--

May

Doyoung wakes first.

His alarm is incessant and there’s really only a finite number of times he can hit the snooze button before it’s the reason both he and Taeyong start the day late together. His legs take him to the bathroom first, painfully so as he leaves his warm bed and snoring boyfriend in favor of washing up. Like clockwork, he prepares Taeyong’s toothbrush with a dime-sized squeeze of toothpaste on top, leaving it settled atop their mugs–he isn’t entirely sure when he’d started this little habit, but with Taeyong refusing to get out of bed until the latest possible minute, he does whatever he can to help speed their mornings along.

Within the few short weeks of him moving in, Taeyong’s apartment has so easily been rearranged to fit them both. It took them a single trip to IKEA to have Doyoung fully settled; despite the trip being only for a mug and some extra cutleries, they drove back with the trunk of Doyoung’s Corolla full of floor mats, matching towels, and an unnecessary, unjustifiable number of miscellaneous household items. Taeyong had expressed his want to make Doyoung feel completely at home and, even if Doyoung were yelling it from the rooftops, he wouldn’t let Doyoung stop him from buying nearly everything they laid eyes on. This included a little chicken kitchen timer they very much did not need.

When he returns to bed, Taeyong acknowledges his presence with a low groan, still hiding under their comforter, a white lump of fluff. The corners of his lips pull up instinctively when Taeyong’s hand–small and thin–creeps from beneath the blanket, patting around blindly. Grinning now, he shifts away from Taeyong’s seeking hand, muffling a laugh when Taeyong lets out another groan, a throaty _where?_

“Good morning,” Doyoung mumbles, lifting the edge of the blanket to dig his way under it. He’s learnt from experience that Taeyong hated leaving their blanket–certain that it’s the most comfortable he’ll ever be–so Doyoung burrows and wiggles until Taeyong’s cheek is on his chest.

“ _Mnh_ ,” comes a huff. He shivers with Doyoung’s touch, exhaling loudly when Doyoung pulls him closer, enveloping him in warmth. “Mornin’.”

“We’re going to be late,” Doyoung says, relaxed. “Well, you’re going to be late for work.”

Taeyong ignores that. He clears his throat, “What’re you doing today?”

“I’ve got to go back for my final box of stuff.” It’s been under a month since he’s moved in with Taeyong (a day after Youngho moved out), but most of his books are still back at the apartment, taking up shelf space Kun’s already planning on leaving for his boyfriend. “And I told Jaehyun I’d meet him for coffee too.”

Taeyong places his foot flat against Doyoung’s knee, stealing heat, “Jaehyun?”

“I promised I’d help with one of his projects for school.” Doyoung trails a hand up Taeyong’s side to have the older boy look at him, pushing the brown tufts of hair out of his eyes. _Cute._ Taeyong stares up blearily, “I mentioned it yesterday.”

“Forgot,” Taeyong murmurs, without hesitance. He keens into Doyoung’s hand, “Will you have dinner with him too?”

“I don’t know. We might if we don’t finish going over his project.”

Taeyong tilts up to kiss Doyoung’s soulmark, “Come home for dinner. I’ll cook, or we’ll order in. Whatever.”

Doyoung’s heart warms at _home_. “I will,” he kisses Taeyong chastely, “You’re going to be late for work.”

Taeyong flops backwards, closing his eyes again, “Five more minutes.”

Doyoung shudders inwardly at the memory of the one time he failed to get Taeyong out of bed; it was the first week of blissful cohabitation when Taeyong deemed their new arrangement too loving for him to leave. Doyoung witnessed his tiny boyfriend, in a rush to get ready after a half hour of lazing around, run head-first into the side of the doorframe, knocking himself out. Doyoung had scrambled to help him up but Taeyong refused to leave his curled-up position on the ground, whimpering pathetically.

But, even with sunlight already seeping steadily through their curtains, Doyoung can’t bring himself to get out of bed either. He snuggles closer, accepting the victorious sigh Taeyong breathes, “Are you sure you want to make dinner tonight?”

“I can.” Taeyong litters soft kisses over the base of Doyoung’s neck, “Why?”

“Well–you’ve been busy with work. And I’m about done with my semester, I could handle dinner tonight.”

Taeyong shifts, pliant now in Doyoung’s arms, practically melting, “Work’s okay.”

It’s a white lie, Doyoung knows. The shift from his previous workplace to the larger, more renowned entertainment company has been hard on Taeyong. There are bigger clients and bigger risks and, from what Doyoung’s told, more than what Taeyong’s sure he can handle. But it’s brought better advantages for Taeyong too, more networking opportunities and exposure for the work he’s been doing–and the _pay_ , that’s been doubled as well.

“Are you sure?” Doyoung wishes time would stop, wishes he could lie here forever, “I really wouldn’t mind.”

“You’ve been cooking for me ever since you moved in,” Taeyong reminds, but not without delight. “At least let me try and level the playing field a little. You want to spoil me, I know, I _know_. And I love it when you do,” his tone colors dismay, “but seriously, darling–I’ve gained so much weight because of you.”

“What’re you on about,” Doyoung mutters. He slides a hand between them and under Taeyong’s shirt, resting his palm against Taeyong’s tummy, undeniably chubbier than when they’d first met. “You’re perfect,” he tells Taeyong, ignoring the grunt of disbelief and the way his hand is swiftly smacked away, “Besides, I like cooking for you.”

“If you keep feeding me like a cow I won’t be able to fit into my suit for Gongmyung’s wedding,” Taeyong warns. “I’d have to get it tailored all over again.”

“Don’t care, I’d still love you. And I’d be happy to do all that with you, chubs.” He dodges the hand Taeyong tries to smack his head with, “Besides, if you’re talking about the suit you bought for graduation, I think it was too big for you then,” he grins, “so you should fill it out just fine now.”

Taeyong gasps, aghast, “Jerk.”

“Mm, love you too.” Doyoung kisses Taeyong’s frown away, kisses him until he’s chasing after for more. Resting his head back onto their pillow, “Are you excited? For the wedding?”

“I should be asking you that, best man.” Taeyong’s hand inches up until it’s resting against Doyoung’s cheek, thumbing the birthmark scar at the corner of Doyoung’s lips, “I told my supervisor I’d be taking a couple of days off so she’s been asking about it lately, but Hyesung mentioned several dates the last time they called… Have they said anything?”

“They haven’t,” Doyoung sighs. He turns his head the slightest to kiss Taeyong’s thumb, enjoying the grin it pulls from him. “I mean–obviously the wedding is happening, but the dates, they’re–”

“Right,” Taeyong murmurs. He thins his lips, “Is your mother still waiting for a sign from the fates?”

Doyoung nods, reluctant to admit it. As much as he loved his parents, some of their ways of thinking are so tied to tradition and fates that it’s got Doyoung’s head spinning off his shoulders. Even growing up Doyoung didn’t know what to think of his mother’s belief in the indisputable powers of fate. Some of them made sense, sure, but Doyoung’s positive that his family and their undying fidelity towards the fates is the reason some of his world views are warped–soulmarks and their utmost importance included.

“Hyesung says she’s waiting for the peonies in our backyard to bloom so that she can–count the petals. To make sure the fates have blessed them the right date to marry.”

“Wow.”

“That’s mother for you.”

Taeyong’s caress slows to a stop, eyes impossibly sincere, “And you’re sure I’m invited?”

“Of course,” Doyoung seizes the automatic reaction to roll his eyes. “I’ve already told him that you’re coming with.”

“And my soulmark–” Taeyong fidgets, “I mean, I don’t have a–and your mother–”

 _Right._ That hadn’t been a thought Doyoung considered in a long time. It had been, months ago, but he’d conveniently shoved it to the deepest depths of his mind and left it there to rot. It wasn’t that he was planning on keeping it from his parents forever–absolutely not–but with how fast everything’s happened–finding Taeyong, falling in love, moving in–Doyoung hadn’t exactly found enough time to sit down and explain the year’s events to them. He’s mentioned it, briefly, so, so very briefly, but he hasn’t mentioned the soulmark (and lack thereof), because it didn’t matter, it shouldn’t matter, and it isn’t _going_ to matter. Soulmark or not, he is bringing Taeyong home.

Doyoung’s mind works quick, “Yeah, her–and my aunts and weird uncles and bratty cousins. All of them in a single ballroom. Convenient, meeting them all at once.”

“I hardly think your aunts or uncles are the ones I should be afraid of meeting,” Taeyong snorts.

Under it, Doyoung hears the anxiousness. He hugs Taeyong close, tries to squeeze the worry out of his tiny frame, and very much despite of all the thoughts banging around his head, he means it when he says, “They’ll love you, Taeyong, I know it.”

Taeyong presses his lips where he can reach in their hug, behind the shell of Doyoung’s ear, “And you’re sure?”

 _Sure_. Sure about bringing Taeyong home, sure about having Taeyong meet the family, sure about Taeyong. Of course Doyoung’s sure, he couldn’t be more certain about anything else. Doyoung reads this in an instant, “Why wouldn’t I be sure?”

“Don’t make it seem like you don’t know how things can get when–”

“Yes.” Doyoung’s already decided long ago that he didn’t need Taeyong to have a soulmark. Whatever happens, will happen. Even if the people around them pick up pitchforks and torches to say they aren’t meant to be, Doyoung has _his_ soulmark and he knows he’s the one for Taeyong. “I’m sure, so. Come home with me, okay?”

“Okay,” Taeyong says, a hint of bubbly demeanor that wasn’t there before. “Okay.”

\--

_Left. Right. No, not this right._

Walking down the streets is still more intellect than instinct, even after the weeks of walking down them with Taeyong by his side, pointing out certain landmarks and stores he thought would help Doyoung along the way. Since then the city seemed to welcome him more than it did his first weeks here; the subways didn’t seem as daunting, the alleys didn’t look like grueling scenes out of a horror movie, even the owner of the Chinese restaurant remembered him (with or without Taeyong by his side). It’s a change Doyoung thought he’d never accustom to, but he did anyway, going through newer days with a sense of belonging he didn’t think he’d feel.

At twenty-two, Doyoung knew there was still time–a lot of it–for his soulmark to color in, but with his friends back home getting hues of lemon and honey on their wrists, he was understandably impatient for his to too. Coincidentally enough, things were then growing steadily serious between Gongmyung–his brother–and Hyesung–his soon-to-be sister-in-law–and the only thing his family ever wished to talk about seemed to relate to the engagement and the upcoming wedding–events Doyoung didn’t know yet what to think of.

Finding Taeyong was icing on the cake. Doyoung doesn’t ever want to think of the days he didn’t know yet days like these; days when he didn’t have someone eagerly waiting on the other end of a phone for his call, days when he didn’t have spontaneous weekend trips out of the city just to spend most of his time snuggled in bed, days when he didn’t have someone he loved coming home to–even if it meant having microwavable rice and a single dish out of a frying pan for dinner.

Taeyong.

There couldn’t possibly be anyone else Doyoung could ever want as much.

\--

It’s been months and the elevator in his apartment building still isn’t working. Doyoung thinks, by the time he gets on the landing to the fifth floor, panting and embarrassingly out-of-breath, he’s truly glad he’s finally moving out of here. As much as he’ll miss having his own room and a living space that isn’t cluttered with Taeyong’s stack of workpapers or his array of video game cartridges he can’t be bothered to put away, going to bed and waking with Taeyong beside him still tops all else. 

Doyoung slides the key into the lock for what likely is the last time ever, pushing the door open to find Kun standing right by the door, bowl in hand.

He takes half a second to register, “Doyoung! Ah, oh! I–completely forgot you were coming over again today,” he looks over his shoulder at the stack of pots and bowls already in the sink, “I would’ve left some lunch for you.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it, thank you–I’m meeting a friend later for coffee,” Doyoung shrugs, slipping in and shutting the door. He steps out of his shoes, “I was hoping you were home actually–I told Mr. Jung I’d hand him the key before I leave, but he isn’t answering the intercom so I figured I’d leave it with you, if that’s okay.”

“Yeah, that’s great! I’ll hand it to Xuxi and let Mr. Jung know later; he’s been thinking of moving in early next week so I won’t have to go bother the super about it again then.” And when Kun smiles, it’s congenial and so clearly sincere that Doyoung’s heart aches a little at the thought of how they won’t be roommates any longer. They hadn’t spent all that much time together, considering how Doyoung had his soulmark color in for the very first time two weeks into moving in. Which meant his following days were all Taeyong, Taeyong, _Taeyong_.

They did easily form a good sort of system between them; Kun always took out the trash and Doyoung made sure their kitchen was spotless, Kun did his laundry over the first half of the week while Doyoung did his over the other half, Kun was a good cook and he always left Doyoung a bowl of whatever dessert he made over weekends; Doyoung will miss having those on Monday mornings. It’s been a comfortable system, and Doyoung’s sure to miss it all.

Doyoung nods, “I should have all my things cleared out by today–so the room’s free if he wants it any sooner than that.”

“That’s fine,” he’s told. It’s then that he notices again the bowl of soup and dumplings Kun’s cradling, “He’s actually been staying in my room the past week, taking up my bed space and all that.”

“Oh.” Doyoung doesn’t know why that should surprising, they _are_ dating after all. He’s only met Xuxi–a tall, charming boy, perpetually excited to hear anything remotely related to Kun–a couple of times, but Doyoung can’t recall Xuxi ever staying over. Intrigued, “Is everything alright?”

Kun laughs shortly and, if Doyoung didn’t know any better, nervously, “Yeah, he’s just–there’re some things going on at the university and it’s stressing him out, so he’s here for a while.”

Doyoung looks at him apologetically, “Is he–”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kun waves dismissively at the air between them. He leans against the kitchen island, thinking seriously, “He’s just having some trouble adjusting since it’s his first year. And I can’t help with his assignments–especially since he’s studying fashion, of all things.” Doyoung moves to stand by the adjacent wall, listening attentively; he knows firsthand how difficult it is, moving cities. “I don’t know–I just feel like there’s nothing I can do to make it better. Other than say that it’ll all be okay.”

“It just takes time to settle in,” Doyoung says, albeit uselessly. Kun would understand it too, having moved over from even further than two hours away. “I remember us both being pretty lost our first month here, we didn’t dare travel downtown.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I suppose he just needs more time,” Kun laughs, light. He moves along quickly, “And how are you? How’s the new place coming along?”

“Good, good.” Doyoung motions vaguely, “We’ve both been busy since he’s got a new project at work and my brother’s wedding is in a couple of months. Naturally, my mother’s already freaking out and everything back home is utter–” for dramatic effect, “chaos.”

“Chaos,” he echoes.

“Dresses, color schemes, flowers,” Doyoung lists right off the top of his head, having been on the phone with Gongmyung about ivory or cream for too long a call. He exhales, “Yeah, it’s been a busy month but it’s good, with him. Better than I thought it would be.”

A dimple on Kun’s cheek sinks deep with a lopsided smile, “That’s hardly a feat since you had such low expectations going in.”

Doyoung feigns an affronted look. The memory of that fateful night months ago rises to the surface; after turning the block, Doyoung had sprinted the entire way home, breathless and just a bag of bones by the time he hurdled himself back into his apartment, blood a rapid pendulum running from his heart to his ears. Kun was in their living room, clearing up the remnants of his dinner, frozen at what must have been the most deranged look Doyoung’d ever had. He hadn’t thought to call Gongmyung yet, so he babbled the evening’s course of events to Kun, who’d been too stunned to move. It was past two in the morning when Doyoung’s heartbeat finally slowed, allowing Kun to retreat into his room for a well-earned good night’s rest, after having spent most of it calming Doyoung out of an anxious fit. He’d appreciated Kun’s company, in spite the occasional silence. It was what he needed then.

“That was months ago,” Doyoung defends.

Kun nods to appease him, “I would’ve panicked too if I were you.”

That takes Doyoung by surprise. For someone as calm as Kun is, he would’ve thought the boy be uncapable of panicking. Especially when it comes to Xuxi, Kun always seemed so level-headed, “What would you have done, if you were me? If you met Xuxi without his soulmark?”

Kun’s brows shoot up, and he thinks on it for longer than Doyoung expects. Finally, “I can’t say. I guess I would’ve reacted differently.” His mistranslates Doyoung’s silence and hurries to add, “It’s only because my cousin’s the same, you know–the one I told you about?” Doyoung blanks. _What cousin?_ Kun frowns, “I mean–she _was_ engaged.”

Kun so confidently speaks as if he should know this. He doesn’t.

“She didn’t have a soulmark, but then she did. It just–appeared and colored in. At the reception.”

Doyoung’s jaw hits the ground. His heart sinks at the words.

Kun sighs, “I don’t know what I would’ve done if I didn’t meet Xuxi like I did, I can’t say for sure, but seeing her leave without even saying a word–”

Doyoung snaps back to life, “She left?”

Embarrassed, almost, “I know.” He rubs at his temples, “Even to this day it gives the entire family a headache when she comes by with her husband–her new husband–the one her soulmark colored in for.” But Kun’s hands drop, and he registers the confusion in the air, “What?”

On reflex, “Nothing.” Doyoung’s heart, god knows why, races, but he schools his expression. “I just–don’t remember you mentioning her, your cousin.”

Kun pauses, “I did. The night you met Taeyong.”

“Right, sorry,” Doyoung represses the nerves threatening to break free, _stop that._

“In fairness, it was a pretty eventful night so I’d actually be surprised if you did remember,” Kun laughs. He smiles wryly, “You looked like a ghost when you walked in–I half thought I was hallucinating.”

“Did you,” Doyoung murmurs. Other than the vivid memory of Taeyong’s wide eyes and parted lips, he can’t exactly remember anything else from that night. “Sorry, I don’t know why I can’t–I’ve no memory of it at all.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Kun shrugs, thankfully not at all noticing the way Doyoung’s heart seems to be beating straight out of his ears. “You asked me if I knew anyone without a soulmark and she’s the only other person I know without one.”

“Her soulmark appeared? Just like that?” Doyoung can’t wrap his mind around it. He digs his nails into his palm and forces his voice to steady, “She was getting married–but she left? The altar?”

Kun sighs, looking forlornly at the bowl in his hands, “Yeah, she did. I guess it’s worked out all great for her, I mean, she’s happy with her husband and they’re about to have their first kid. I can’t say for sure if she’d be just as happy with her previous fiancé. You never know when it comes to things like these.”

A stake pierces Doyoung straight in the heart, turmoil spreading from the wound.

 _No, no, no_ , he tells himself. Days of worrying over Taeyong’s supposed soulmark have long passed. They’ve spoken too long over this for Doyoung to want to ever think about it again. It didn’t matter, it _doesn’t–_

Forget that he doesn’t have a soulmark, it doesn’t matter anymore. Taeyong doesn’t need it to prove that he’s the one for Doyoung and Doyoung does well to remember this. He was skeptical of it the night they met–this he cannot deny–but even then, his heart valiantly objected at the idea of never seeing Taeyong again, fought and clawed its way out of Doyoung’s chest to say _wait_.

Soulmark or not, Doyoung doesn’t care, he refuses to–Taeyong is surely the one for him.

But,

Would someone else come along–someone kinder and taller than Doyoung? Someone that with the qualities Doyoung lacked, someone that loved better, someone that could better provide? Someone reliable and trustworthy? Would he have Taeyong’s soulmark color in, fates forbid that he didn’t have a soulmark to begin with? That he didn’t have the patch of discolored gray? Would it appear on the inside of his wrist from thin air?

Would _he_ be the one for Taeyong?

Doyoung’s knees weaken.

Without a doubt, Taeyong is the best match for him, the first that he could find. But, is he the best match for Taeyong? Doesn’t this mean–isn’t this proof?–that there’s someone out there that _could_ have a soulmark to appear on Taeyong’s wrist? With the blessing of the gods, of the heavens, of the fates, there could be a chance Taeyong find someone better. There could be a chance Taeyong have a soulmark–no matter how he denies it’ll ever happen, it still _might_ –and it wouldn’t be for Doyoung.

It wouldn’t be for Doyoung at all.

What would he do then?

What _could_ he do?

“I can’t believe you don’t remember,” Kun says lightly, as if recalling a fond memory. It is, so to speak. “We discussed this at a considerable length for hours, Doyoung. But–you decided to ask Taeyong out anyway, even when you told me to play Devil’s advocate. You said it felt right.”

Doyoung doesn’t expect his heart to crack a little more, hearing that.

It’s after too long more of small talk that Kun finally realizes that the bowl of soup in his hands is losing heat, and he bids Doyoung goodbye first, giving the taller boy a one-armed hug. He wishes Doyoung the best and tells him he’ll miss their non-conversations, shuffling into his bedroom (where Xuxi awaits) with the usual bounce to his step. Doyoung’s legs, on the other hand, shake the entire ten steps to his room on the left side of the apartment across Kun’s. He shuts the door behind him and leans against it, unsteady, trying to catch his breath once more. 

Her soulmark _appeared_ –it colored in.

Of course she’d leave. A blatant sign from the fates that her soulmate–her _real_ soulmate, one that had her soulmark appear–was sitting in the crowd and not standing at the end of the altar. She would have to leave, she can’t possibly not leave. Even if it were to satisfy the curiosity of who it be–Doyoung can’t speak for sure he wouldn’t leave. Having his soulmark already colored in for the one he’s sure is his, but he wouldn’t know. Kun’s right–some things just can’t be predicted.

He stills, _would Taeyong leave?_

There’s no denying that Taeyong is the one for him, his soulmark says that clearly. But Taeyong–without the soulmark, they could be wrong. This could all be wrong, and Doyoung would _lose_ him. He would lose Taeyong to someone better, taller, kinder–

Immediately he shakes the thought. Nothing good, nothing at all, would come out of thinking about it. He isn’t going to let some nameless figure affect what they’ve built. He’s learnt Taeyong well enough to understand that this isn’t a conversation he ever wants to have. They’ve already spent countless nights whispering about Doyoung’s soulmark and Taeyong’s spent them kissing it sweet, holding it close to his heart. He’s apologized time and time again for _not_ having a soulmark and it frustrates Doyoung to know that some part of his loving boyfriend still thinks it’s his own fault he didn’t have one. They’ve both come a long way from once placing the importance of soulmarks on a pedestal, and even though Doyoung knows just how much Taeyong used to believe and trust in the fates–things are different now.

Things have changed, haven’t they?

His phone buzzes in his back pocket. Buzzes again.

 _You were right,_ reads Taeyong’s text. _Don’t be too happy about it._

Numbly, Doyoung types out a reply, _What was I right about?_

 _Just finished a meeting and they pushed the deadline to this weekend_ _so I’ll have to be at work til late tonight. Guess making dinner’s a no-go…_

 _That’s okay, I’ll make dinner tonight._ Remembering this morning, _Don’t stress out too much from work, okay?_

_I won’t. You’re the best, I love you._

Doyoung’s gut churns, _I love you too._

\--

The café sits on a quiet street in midtown.

“Sorry I’m late–” Doyoung feels the gust of wind before he sees Jaehyun, rushing over to sink in the seat across him, hair winded. He drops his satchel to the floor with a solid _thud_ , “Lunch with Yuta ran a little long.”

“It’s okay,” Doyoung closes the menu in his hands, “I got here a couple of minutes ago.”

After bolting out of his–now solely Kun’s–apartment and earning himself some time, Doyoung took the long detour back home to leave his box of books, rather than haul it around the city, waiting. With music blaring through his headphones, all his thoughts cram into the darkest corner of his mind, where Doyoung needs it to be. He cleared out the kitchen from this morning’s rushed breakfast (toast and avocado, and some yogurt with berries, as Taeyong requested), and prepped for tonight’s dinner–a simple _omurice_ dish. Just as the clock neared three, Doyoung packed the readied ingredients back into the refrigerator and left the empty apartment, music still ringing loud enough in his ears to obliterate any chance of thought.

If he didn’t think about it, the problem didn’t exist. There is no problem. 

“I might just get a coffee,” Jaehyun hums. He glances at the wall of specials, “Have you eaten? Youngho told me once that they’re famous for their egg sandwiches, but the cakes here are their specialty.”

Doyoung decides on the recommended egg sandwich and Jaehyun orders a small cappuccino, and they delve into the clear file holding Jaehyun’s final project. It’s on production design and visual storytelling, something Doyoung voices that he isn’t too familiar with, but Jaehyun reassures that all he needs is some guidance on the texts that accompanies each photograph.

“I’m not good with words,” he claims, sipping on his coffee quietly.

“Seems pretty good to me so far,” Doyoung says, skimming through the first two pages. As instructed, he marks where needed with a red Sharpie for Jaehyun to reference later, before he worked on the final submission. A little unnerved by the way he’s being watched, “Where’d you have lunch? Near Yuta’s office?”

“Sort of,” Jaehyun places his cup down. “Yuta’s aunt has a small sushi restaurant on 39th that opened a couple of weeks ago. It’s usually booked full for dinner and the weekends, so she booked us for a table during lunch today.” Doyoung nods, writing suggestions neatly on the margins, “How’s your new cohabitation living plan coming along?”

Kun’s voice rings jarringly at the back of Doyoung’s mind, almost like a déjà vu. “Good,” he clears his throat. Something grips his lung tight, cold, but he forces a deep breath through, “I turned my old key in and moved my final box out today.”

“Already, wow,” Jaehyun taps his fingers against the back of his phone. “It feels like it was only yesterday that Yuta said we’d be helping Youngho move out over the weekend.”

Doyoung agrees readily, “I woke up to ten missed calls from Taeyong saying that I could move in immediately if I helped Youngho move out.”

“I didn’t even know what exactly was happening,” Jaehyun recalls. “All Yuta said was to not make any plans for the weekend and that to dress comfortable.”

“Those were long hours of back-breaking work,” Doyoung sighs. “I don’t know understand how one person can simply have that much stuff.”

Jaehyun makes a contemplative noise and seems to take that as a cue the conversation should end, focusing instead on watching Doyoung make his way through the portfolio.

With the silence, without the escape of music in his ears, Doyoung’s thoughts run free once more. Images, flashes of Taeyong–his eyes, his smile, his lips–bore against the walls of his mind, refusing to leave, refusing to spare Doyoung the reminder, the possibility, of Taeyong being destined to love someone else. What are they going to do if–by the grace of fates–Taeyong’s soulmark does appear one day? If it does get colored in, what is Taeyong going to think? Would he think the fates have finally given him someone worthy to love?

_Why didn’t his soulmark appear for me?_

_Is it because I’m not tall enough_? Doyoung tries not to frown. He doesn’t loom over Taeyong like a giant and Taeyong has always gushed about how long Doyoung’s legs are, hands greedily on them every night to prove a point. He can’t think this a reason the fates would ploy against him.

 _Am I too thin?_ Doyoung’s never been one to devote hours to the gym, but that’s never affected him so. He’s even gained a little weight around the tummy with Taeyong, thanks to the countless lunch and dinner dates they go on. Surely, love transcends physical appearances as minuscule as this.

 _Then, is it because I’m not good enough?_ Doyoung doesn’t know what to make of this. They bicker, of course, as all couples do, but he loves Taeyong. Everything he does–the dragging out of bed in the mornings, the nagging over picking up after himself, the hounding over having too many sweets–it’s all out of love.

Thinking about losing him drives a wedge down Doyoung’s heart.

“Something wrong?” Jaehyun asks, peering close to see what’s got Doyoung stuck.

“No, no, not at all,” he brushes the worries away. _He loves me_ , there is no doubt. Doyoung refocuses his attention and, to have Jaehyun not breathe down his neck, “Hey, how did you and Yuta meet?” Jaehyun visibly relaxes at the mention of his soulmate, “Taeyong tells me it was a race Yuta took him on, trying to get to you, but he never says much else about it.”

“It’s not–” Jaehyun scrunches his nose, grin teasing. “It’s not as interesting as how you met Taeyong.”

Doyoung shrugs, “Try me.”

Jaehyun settles back in his seat to look out the window across the café, “We met actually met at an intersection not far from here. I was walking to class and it colored in, which freaked me out.”

“Naturally.”

“Naturally.” Jaehyun smiles, gently, softly almost, at the memory, “I walked in every direction with my soulmark to my face, I swear, I almost walked into two street lights and a mailbox. I don’t even remember looking while going across crosswalks. I eventually managed to find him, thankfully.”

Doyoung hooks his ankles together under the table, “Did you think you weren’t going to find him?”

Jaehyun ponders over it. “Yes and no, I guess. I knew on some level that I was going to find him somehow, even if I lost him that day, I could always find him again. But,” when Jaehyun blushes, Doyoung notes, his ears are the first to go red, “I didn’t want to lose that initial connection I had with him. I couldn’t– _not_ find him. I wouldn’t know what to do if I did lose him that first day, I kept thinking–would my soulmark still work? Like it was some sort of cosmic GPS sent from the fates and I was on the verge of losing signal.”

“But you did find him.” Jaehyun nods. Doyoung circles a word on the fourth page and draws a couple of arrows to indicate some rephrasing needed. “What happened after that?”

“I froze.” Jaehyun rubs his hands and clasps them together, eyes lifting briefly to the ceiling, “I think my heart stopped. I couldn’t move or say anything, I felt like–” he shakes his head shyly, “I don’t know.”

Doyoung, ever curious, “What?”

If Jaehyun’s ears were red before, Doyoung doesn’t know how else to describe how bright they are now, “I’ve always said he took my breath away, I honestly couldn’t breathe. I don’t even think I was looking at him, I don’t know if I did. Everything was a blur. He _actually_ took my breath away.”

In quiet amazement, Doyoung finds that he relates. That first kiss of color on his wrist was electrifying. He didn’t know what else to do but enter the convenience store, following the steady pulse of his soulmark until he saw Taeyong’s fluffy head of brown hair. He figured then he hadn’t imagined it–he couldn’t have. The soulmark felt like the brightest it could ever be and Doyoung couldn’t _think_. He’d stumbled his way through the store, not of sound mind to even eavesdrop at whatever Taeyong and Youngho were heatedly debating. With shaking hands, he picked out whatever he could reach, even dropping a couple bottles of water and picking an odd choice of dry mangoes in the process, an absolute mess.

Jaehyun breathes deeply, “But Yuta always says I’m exaggerating. He always tells me I’m making it up, like I didn’t honestly fall in love with him on the spot.”

Doyoung studies him warily, “But you did.”

“I did.” Jaehyun’s dimples deepen once more, “At first I thought he didn’t–feel that connection I felt that day,” the grip Doyoung has on the pen tightens in the slightest. “He was cold and serious when we first started dating, so I thought he didn’t like me as much as I hoped he would, or–maybe, he didn’t want to like me. It seemed that way to me. We had an argument about it a month after we’d started dating,” Jaehyun turns sheepish, “and I told him I would understand, if he thought I weren’t the best for him. That if he did think that, I should probably just–walk away.”

Too many times today, Doyoung’s blood runs cold. “What?”

Jaehyun and Yuta, Yuta and Jaehyun. The number of times Taeyong have spoken about them being absolutely perfect for one another has to be in the thousands. They’re the epitome of an ideal relationship–find a soulmate and fall in love; the only two steps there are, the steps that are the hardest to maneuver, Jaehyun and Yuta had finessed them with grace and ease. Or so Doyoung thought.

“I thought he would get angry, but he just–left. He didn’t want to talk,” Jaehyun mumbles, slumping forward against the table. The portfolio is forgotten. He keeps his eyes to the table, “And if it weren’t for Taeyong–I don’t think we’d still be together. He’s the one who told me about how Yuta really felt when we first met–how he, as you know, dragged Taeyong down five blocks, panicking too that his soulmark had colored in. I didn’t know he did that. Taeyong said he’d kill me if I ever ratted him out but he told me everything about Yuta–how he never trusted easy and how it was–how _I_ was–something new and that I just–can’t give up, that Yuta didn’t want me to give up.”

“Running to find me, Yuta–he,” Jaehyun finishes softly, “he never told me he did that–to find me.”

It’s nice, Jaehyun’s story, and nearly too comforting. Doyoung doesn’t allow himself to read too much into it, other than offer a sincere, “Oh.”

“Taeyong, he really–” Jaehyun sighs. It’s one of relief, “I couldn’t thank him enough.”

Doyoung eats the ball of cotton in his throat.

“He really made me believe that our soulmarks meant we were _something_ for each other, perfect or not,” he continues. Doyoung bites back the nausea rising, “I was starting to think that maybe we weren’t destined to be together, that the soulmarks were wrong, but Taeyong was so adamant that our soulmarks meant something, and that it meant something _good._ He reminded me that the fates brought us together, told me that it couldn’t possibly mean nothing if the fates designed it to be this way. If it weren’t for him believing in our soulmarks–I don’t know, I was skeptical, but–he changed my mind.”

_I think I’m going to be sick–_

Doyoung’s phone, a gift sent from the heavens, rings.

“Excuse me,” he manages to choke out. Jaehyun doesn’t seem to notice, nodding cheerily and sitting up to look at the annotations on his portfolio.

Doyoung waits until he’s out on the street before he breathes again.

_This can’t be happening, this seriously can’t be happening–_

Did he wake up on the wrong side of the bed today? Why is everything challenging the one thing he’s grown to treasure the most? After moving away from home, leaving his family and friends, doing his best to settle in a city that seemed too big for him. After finding the person he so badly believes is his soulmate? Falling in love? Why are the fates today so desperate to take this away from him?

More than that, is he really going to let two measly conversations take Taeyong away from him? Did their sweet whispers mean nothing? The nights he spent worshipping Taeyong’s very being, the nights Taeyong spent professing his love with his gentle caresses? Could they vanish in a blink of an eye?

His phone rings again. Doyoung staggers towards the street light to hold himself steady, bringing the phone to his ear, “Hello?”

“We finally have a date!” Gongmyung’s voice drips in exuberance. He goes on without pause, “All of us double-counted the peonies’ petals and our queen, her majesty, had some mathematical equation supposedly handed straight to her from the gods of all that is good. So, we have a date! The eighteenth of July. It’s a Saturday, so expect to be here Thursday night to help out with all the, I don’t know, more petal counting.”

Doyoung’s head spins, “What?”

“The wedding, Doyoung, are you even listening?” _Barely_. His lungs ache, his chest wrenches and threatens to close his throat. The timing couldn’t possibly be any better, “Now, first things first–Hyesung’s got the color scheme all done and she’s picked out the store she wants the suits to be from. They’ve a store in the city–I’ll send you the address and you can pick it up latest by the week after next. Send us a picture when you try it on, okay?”

“Okay,” Doyoung says, purely on reflex. How can it simultaneously feel like everything’s falling into place, yet breaking apart?

Gongmyung carries on, “And I know we haven’t properly discussed it, but do you think Taeyong could help out with the wedding? We’re looking for a band since the one Hyesung wanted’s all booked up, so we were wondering if he could send us a couple of recommendations? He mentioned one the last time we called, but I can’t be for certain if I’ve messed up the name, or if _De Dental Dingbats_ really is the name of the band… In which case, we might need to rethink this decision again.”

“I–I don’t know.” Doyoung needs to lie down. Gongmyung is speaking, but it’s all starting to translate into mush in his ears, “I mean–he’s been pretty busy with work lately, so I don’t know.”

“Well, if he could, that’d be great,” Gongmyung says. There’s a rustle of papers on his end, “On the bright side, Hyesung’s already started on the seating plan and we’ve managed to get you both at our table so it wouldn’t just look like a boring table full of old people.” Doyoung closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, “Plus, the tailor’s an old friend of mine so he’s given us a friends and family discount, if Taeyong wanted a new suit for the wedding. Hyesung says she has one picked out for him; it’s a shade lighter than yours, so it’s supposed to match, she says.” Too many words, too many words, “ _And_ mum says she can’t wait to properly meet the boy that’s convinced her precious son to leave home for good.”

Doyoung’s chest tightens, “She did?”

“You moved in with him a month ago and you’ve been talking about him non-stop whenever we call,” Gongmyung deadpans. “Did you think she wasn’t going to be interested in the boy that’s won her precious boy’s heart?”

 _Don’t ask, don’t bring it up_. “Do you think mum will like him?”

Gongmyung, for once in the longest time, is silent. He speaks with a knowing lilt, “Yes, she will.”

“Even if–”

“Even if,” Gongmyung affirms. The bind around Doyoung’s chest loosens modestly, “And I’m not saying that just because I’m your brother.”

Doyoung leans his head against the lamp pole, “You know how she is.”

“And Taeyong knows that’s how she is–how the family is,” Gongmyung tells him. “They’re going to have to get over it someday, not everything’s as simple as it should be.” Hearing Doyoung worry in silence, “It’s going to be fine, Doyoung. Mum’s not going to disown you or anything just because Taeyong doesn’t have a soulmark. She’d probably be more concerned over how good is he with counting petals, god knows we need more hands for her ever-growing garden.”

Doyoung closes his eyes, wills for his stomach to stop flip-flopping all over the place, “You really think so?”

“Yes,” Gongmyung says. There’re more papers rustling on his end of the line, “She might interrogate you about it, ask why you’ve it kept like a dirty little secret for–”

“Hey–”

“–so long,” he can almost hear Gongmyung shrugging. The papers quiet, “I know it seems like mum’s been all over the place with traditions lately, but it’s just especially so with the wedding coming up. All she’ll be worried about is if you’ve made the right choice, and you have, haven’t you?”

Warmth drains from Doyoung’s cheeks, “What?”

“Taeyong. He’s the one for you, isn’t he?”

Of course. _Of course_. Doyoung is sure, Doyoung is completely, utterly, entirely, _absolutely_ confident that Taeyong’s the one for him. Doyoung’s soulmark is evidence, it’s all the validation Doyoung needs to know that Taeyong’s the very one for him.

“Then you have nothing to worry about,” Gongmyung says.

Doyoung repeats, speaking mostly to himself, “I have nothing to worry about.”

“Exactly right, you don’t.” The papers are rustling again, and the animation returns to Gongmyung’s voice, “I have to go soon, but remember those two things–suits and music, okay? Don’t worry too much about mum, I’ll be sure to lay some groundwork before you get here in July.”

“Yes, I’ll remember,” Doyoung makes a mental note. Then, “and thanks.”

“But you should have a talk with Taeyong about it, if you haven’t already,” Gongmyung says. “As much faith as I try to have in her, mum’s hard to predict sometimes. I doubt she’ll mind too much about it, honestly, but–we can’t be too sure. I imagine it might be worse, the weekend of the wedding, but I have my hopes. So should you.”

Doyoung laughs soullessly, “Loads of things are hard to predict.”

“Exactly that,” Gongmyung, over the line, doesn’t get the crypticity of his tone. “We love Taeyong, okay, I’m positive she will too. It’s going to be a fun time,” he clicks his tongue, “as long as you remember those two things–suits and music.”

“Yes, yes, I got it.”

“And take a picture when you’ve got the suit on, don’t forget–”

“ _Yes_ , I got it, I won’t forget.” Gongmyung reminds him once more, twice, then hangs up, leaving Doyoung to listen to the silence. He stands for a long moment, phone still pressed to his ear, heart still shaking in his chest. With a shuddering breath, Doyoung steels his nerves and ducks his way back into the café, where Jaehyun is still sitting, studiously going over his portfolio.

He asks, when Doyoung slides back into his seat, “Everything alright?”

“Yeah.” Doyoung sets his phone aside and picks up the egg sandwich, having arrived in his absence, “It was Gongmyung, calling about–wedding things.”

“Right, the wedding,” Jaehyun nods. A thoughtful expression clouds his face, “I haven’t been to a wedding ever, now that I think about it.”

“It’s fun, seeing everyone and getting drunk,” Doyoung tells him, chewing through a bite. “Unless you’re planning the wedding, then I suppose it’s not as fun, trying to get everyone into a confined area and having no one go at anyone’s throats.”

“Naturally,” Jaehyun twirls the Sharpie between his fingers. “I wonder what it’ll be like when Youngho and Taeil get married. I assume the whole of CSU’s going to be there, considering how many people Youngho knows.”

Doyoung looks up, eyes the size of saucers. “Are they getting married?”

“Not yet, but Yuta mentioned it a couple of days ago.” Jaehyun fiddles with the marker cap, “They will, at some point. Yuta says it’s all the matter of when.”

“Really?” Doyoung takes a small bite of his sandwich, “How long have they been together?”

“Over a year, I think.” Jaehyun rubs the inner side of his ring finger as he speaks, wrist facing Doyoung, a display of his soulmark. His colored a little cooler than Doyoung’s, but it matches Yuta’s perfectly. “But they’re soulmates,” he looks, almost hopefully, at his own hand, “they could get married whenever they wanted to–they’re meant to be.”

“Right.” The egg sandwich feels like a rock lodge in the back of his throat, “Meant to be.” At Jaehyun’s wistful expression, Doyoung asks, “And you? Ever think about getting married?”

Jaehyun’s smile widens, on the verge of reaching his ears, “Someday. Yuta and I–” almost in daze when he circles a hand over his wrist, thumb grazing over his soulmark, a sunflower yellow, “–we’re meant to be too.”

Doyoung doesn’t finish the egg sandwich.

\--

It’s exhaustion, Doyoung decides, that’s what it is. There has to be a limited number of times a single person can suffer from questioning their fate in a single day, much less the span of six hours. He shouldn’t be allowed to do this much thinking, especially when an absolute certainty it’s only going to bring more troubles than not.

Blankly, Doyoung starts on his first egg mixture, pouring it into the pan neatly. It’s past seven now, and he’s timed making dinner perfectly enough to have it ready by the time Taeyong comes up. Between waiting for the eggs to begin cooking and filling it with the fried rice he’d set aside, he tunes out. The entire day has proved itself to be unbelievably mentally exhausting, enough for Doyoung to refuse thinking for the rest of the week. No more thinking. All he wants is for Taeyong to come home so that they can eat and Doyoung can claim his rightful place, sleeping in Taeyong’s arms. That’s all he wants, for the thoughts to stop.

Buried in his mindful not-thinking, Doyoung fails to hear the front door unlock.

“What’re you making?”

He jumps out of his skin with a frantic gasp, despite knowing full well the person now standing behind him. The spatula in his hand rips a giant hole in the egg omelette-wrap when he does, splitting it into nearly two.

But he couldn’t care less. This voice–he’s been missing it all day.

“Sorry,” Taeyong says, already winding his arms around Doyoung’s waist. Doyoung lowers the heat and angles away from the fire automatically, shivering when Taeyong’s cheek presses comfortably between his shoulder blades, “Hi.”

“Hi,” Doyoung says back, covering the arm across his torso. Belatedly, “I’m making _omurice_.”

“Yum,” he’s told, with not all that much enthusiasm. Taeyong stuffs his nose into Doyoung’s shirt, breathing deeply, “Did you get all your stuff moved over?”

Doyoung piles the fried rice atop the somewhat broken omelet, “Yeah. I handed Kun my key so starting today, I’m officially your roommate.” Partially sarcastic, “I’ll be in your care now.”

“Right,” Taeyong scoffs. “You’ve been my roommate since way before today.” He shifts to rest his weight fully on Doyoung, ignoring the soft grunt he pulls free, “How is he? I haven’t seen him since,” he thinks, “the last time he made dinner. Remember? That really good carrot-soup-beef thing?”

“Beef soup, babe. And he’s–” Doyoung trails off, moving to fold the omelet carefully inwards before sliding it onto a plate he had waiting on his right. He reaches for the bowl of leftover beaten eggs, dragged down by Taeyong’s extra weight as he moves around to place it in the sink for later. The eggs sizzle when it touches the hot pan, “He’s doing alright. Xuxi’s just about moved in too, I think. He was there when I went over.”

Taeyong makes a small noise, doing well to ask about Doyoung’s’ day, as he does routinely. “And lunch?”

“Had some sandwiches with Jaehyun,” Doyoung recounts dutifully. “It was a recommendation from Youngho, a new restaurant near 35th. I think you’d like it.”

“Huh.” His fingers dig into Doyoung’s hip, envy slipping into his voice, “Take me there too next time.”

Doyoung pats his hand, “I will, baby.”

Swiftly (and under Taeyong’ watchful eye), he finishes plating the second _omurice_ and finds himself immediately whisked away from the stove by determined hands. He manages to shut the stove off before allowing Taeyong to pull him close. They share a kiss, soft and sweet. Doyoung’s eyes uncross enough to focus on Taeyong’s grin, basking in each other as if they hadn’t slept in the same bed just this morning. He doesn’t mind it, following Taeyong’s steps with practiced ease. He lends a gentle helping hand when Taeyong hops up to sit on the kitchen counter, spreading his legs for Doyoung to fit snugly between.

“Missed you,” Taeyong murmurs, through a shower of kisses Doyoung gladly receives. He hooks his legs around Doyoung’s waist, thighs warm under the stretch of his denim jeans. _Irresistible._ “I missed you.”

Doyoung admits sincerely, “I missed you too.” A look of delight bounces across Taeyong’s face and they’re kissing again, like teenagers at a prom, their hands glued to one another with a midnight deadline. Doyoung pulls away to ask, “How was work?”

“Good,” shortly. Doyoung’s heartrate picks up when Taeyong bites on his lip, eyes fluttering to a close. He mumbles between kisses, “Worked with a couple of clients, had a cookie, went to some meetings, read a few emails, missed you all day–same old thing. Boring stuff.”

“Boring? But I thought you had a new–”

His inquisition is instantly deemed unimportant and denied. Taeyong takes him by the cheeks and brings their mouths together again for a leisurely kiss, tongue slipping past to lick at Doyoung’s. Weak, Doyoung abides, one hand enthusiastically caressing Taeyong’s thigh and the other on Taeyong’s back as support. He rubs soothing circles where he knows Taeyong’s muscles are tight, pleased at the moans he earns from it.

It’s routine for them–to kiss the moment they’re home again, together. Sometimes the kisses are short and sweet and dinner’s had with decent conversation and maybe even a movie after. Other times they’re a tumbling mess down the hall, trying to claw each other’s clothes off and rid them of any before they hit the bed in a tangle of limbs, scrambling for lips and touch and _please_ and lube.

Doyoung moves his hand higher up Taeyong’s thigh, fleshy and tantalizing and he couldn’t wait to have his lips there tonight, kissing the sensitive stretch of skin to have Taeyong squirm and shiver under him. Taeyong gasps into his mouth, hips jerking forward in a silent plea.

Then, he hears Taeyong’s stomach grumble.

Doyoung breaks out of his trance at that, only mildly apologetic for the dazed look he’s met with. “Aren’t you hungry?” He asks, licking his lips and tasting Taeyong on them. From his peripheral, their dinner stares, dispirited. “Did you say you had a cookie for lunch?”

Taeyong kisses him, “And a piece of fruit.”

Doyoung makes an indignant noise, pulling them apart. He holds Taeyong by the waist still, “Dinner first.”

Taeyong sighs, slumping forward with an unamused frown, “Why am I not surprised.”

“That I care about your health?” Doyoung snorts, kissing the petulance away, “Shocking.”

“I had a good breakfast,” Taeyong tells him, which is needless, considering how Doyoung had made the breakfast. He twists his arms around Doyoung’s neck, manhandling him forward until he’s leaning at an odd enough angle, staring up at Taeyong, “I wonder.” Doyoung hears his back crick when Taeyong lets go, straightening to earn a couple of inches taller, “Does Youngho get to see the top of everyone’s heads like this?”

Doyoung blinks. In retrospect, he’s definitely not unaccustomed to Taeyong’s whimsical ideation, particularly after a long day of brain numbing work, but he’s amused anyway.

“Seriously,” Taeyong says, when Doyoung laughs. He lands both hands on Doyoung’s shoulders and has him stay motionless, tilting his head up and down, “Could you imagine if I were this tall? I’d be looking over your head, almost.”

The laugh stops midway Doyoung’s throat, his breath stopping along right with it. “Do you want to be this tall?”

Taeyong shrugs indifferently, “Not really.” He lets out a small huff through his nose, “I can’t imagine trying to lean on your shoulder if I were.”

“That’s your main concern, really.”

“Really.” Taeyong tilts his head to the left, a playful grin dancing on his lips, “I have a hard-enough time leaning on your shoulder as it is.”

And that’s enough. Enough to shovel just one measly thought, out of all, that Doyoung’d spent the entire day valiantly hiding in that cramped space of his mind. He asks, “Did you wish I were taller?”

Taeyong tilts his head now to the right, expression hardening as if he were seriously contemplating the question. He slides off the counter and studies the difference again, which isn’t all that much. Taeyong stands merely a couple of inches shorter, his eyes training to the tip of Doyoung’s nose. He looks, just the slightest lift of the chin, “No.” Doyoung’s heart subdues, and Taeyong is beaming again, “I like you like this.”

Doyoung breathes, “You do?”

“Of course I do,” Taeyong says, incredulous, like he thinks the question’s dumbest thing he’s ever heard. “If you haven’t already noticed, I like you a lot, Doyoung.” His brows pull together, “Some might say I’m in love with you, you know.”

“I know,” Doyoung kisses him, hopes he wouldn’t see the doubt that’d spent the day lying around Doyoung’s heart. He steps away to reach for their dinner, turning his back to Taeyong to leave it on the table between them. He rests his hands against the edge of the table and he can’t help it, he really can’t, but say, “I just wondered. If there were anything about me you’d like to be–different.”

“Well,” he hears Taeyong sigh, and his lungs threaten to collapse, “I _would_ like it if you didn’t nag at every chance you got. If you didn’t, we’d probably be in bed by now.”

Doyoung stares, straight-faced, “I’m being serious.”

There’s a pregnant pause. Doyoung’s nerves burn the tips of his fingers and he finds that he can’t stand just staring at the edge of their plates any longer. He looks up. Taeyong’s smile is gone, but the furrow in his brows is still there. The playful hint in the air dissolves into something thicker with Taeyong’s confusion, “You actually are.”

Doyoung swallows, body already knowing first the impending doom. He should’ve just let it go, he should’ve just kept quiet.

“Why are you being serious?”

“I mean–” Doyoung pushes himself off the counter. Taeyong’s eyes bore holes into the back of his head when he turns to dig through their drawer of cutleries, “I don’t know, can’t we have a serious conversation?”

Taeyong’s expression twists, “We can.” He grabs onto the crook of Doyoung’s arm the moment he’s close enough, “But I was joking about the nagging. I know you mean well when you do.” Doyoung lays the chopsticks and spoons neatly over the sides of the plates, refusing to spare Taeyong a glance, not now. Taeyong objects this, “Hey.”

“Let’s eat,” Doyoung reaches past Taeyong to pull the chair out for him, scraping loudly against the wooden floors, “before the food gets cold.”

Taeyong’s hand drops to his side, but he doesn’t move, “Doyoung, I was joking.”

Chopsticks in hand, Doyoung’s nails bite painfully into the flesh of his palm. There’s a rush of regret, hearing the uneasiness taint Taeyong’s tone. All at once, the day returns to him. The conversation he had with Kun, the one with Jaehyun, the one with Gongmyung–they come swarming back. The worries are threefold, Doyoung dissects–the new-found realization of the chance Taeyong’s soulmark might appear, the vehemence of Taeyong’s belief in soulmarks (that can’t conceivably be abated), and the very likely possibility of his mother cracking down on their relationship and these exact subject matters two minutes into meeting Taeyong.

Three is three too many.

“Doyoung–”

“I know,” Doyoung says, willing the fear away. He squares his shoulders and meets Taeyong’s eyes, clouded with perplexity, “I know you were kidding.”

“Then, why–” Taeyong sits heavily, both hands now on Doyoung’s arm. He looks a heartbeat away from tackling Doyoung to the ground, “Why are you so–” He trails off, plainly stumped by the difficult shift in Doyoung’s mood. Doyoung opens his mouth to apologize, that they should just forget about it and have dinner, but Taeyong changes gears, “Why would you ask me that?”

Mind blank, “What?”

“Why would you ask if I wanted to change anything about you?” Taeyong is relentless, and with most things, Doyoung doesn’t mind entertaining him, but this he so desperately wishes Taeyong would simply drop. “I don’t want anything about you to be different,” he declares, “I don’t.”

“I know, I didn’t–”

“Is there something you–want to change about me? Is that why you asked?”

Doyoung’s heart, he doubts if it’s even still in his chest. Taeyong’s eyes are impossibly wide, shining over-bright under the dull kitchen light. “No, Taeyong,” his words are punctured with a rushed breath, “that’s not–I don’t want to change anything about you. I don’t.”

“You can be honest with me, Doyoung, I–”

Firmly, “I don’t.” Taeyong clamps his mouth shut, chest rising and falling rapidly. Doyoung crumples, bitter at his own selfishness, “I don’t want to change anything about you. I never will.”

Taeyong regards him carefully, more concerned than untrusting.

“It was just–a thought I had today,” Doyoung says, taking a hold of Taeyong’s hand in his. It’s cold, and Taeyong holds on tight, “I didn’t mean anything by it, it was nothing more than a thought.”

Taeyong shakes his head, bewildered, “Why were you thinking that?”

 _He’s never going to let this go._ His skin prickles hotly, unable to tear his gaze from Taeyong’s, “I don’t know,” he says honestly. Taeyong’s frown deepens, “I was having a conversation with Kun, and he told me–” _don’t say that_ , he corrects, “I just wondered. If you maybe wanted me to be taller. Or nicer, I don’t know, or if you wanted me to be something else, I–”

“What are you _talking_ about.” It’s not a question, so Doyoung doesn’t answer, “Why would you think I’d want you to be taller? Or nicer?” Taeyong looks at him like he’s just tried to light the apartment on fire, “I don’t want you to change–there’s nothing _to_ change–I love you, Doyoung, what are you even saying right now, why would you think–why would you _assume_ that I would want you to–”

“It’s not–” Doyoung groans. He squeezes Taeyong’s hand, pleading, “It’s not important, so–let’s just drop it, okay? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it. It was a thought I had. I asked and you answered, and I love you too, so can we please just have dinner now?”

Taeyong remains skeptical, “I don’t want you to change.”

“And I don’t want you to change either,” Doyoung sighs. He closes the distance to kiss Taeyong on the cheek, unsettled by the sheer heat in Taeyong’s unfaltering stare. He places his pair of chopsticks in Taeyong’s hand, picking up the other set for himself. Taeyong holds his ground for a full minute, an unspeaking war between them, conceding only when Doyoung speaks again, “Gongmyung called today.”

Taeyong lets out a long exhale. Doyoung can tell Taeyong knows there’s more he hasn’t shared, and he’s undoubtedly disappointed by it. He picks at the edges of the omelet, eating in nibbles with his eyes trained to the table. Silence festers awkwardly, sans the sound of their spoons and chopsticks clinking against ceramic plates. Dinner isn’t as warm as it should be, and Doyoung would offer to heat it up again, but the tension tells him to do otherwise.

“They have a date set, July eighteenth.” Taeyong doesn’t acknowledge him, but he doesn’t stop Doyoung from speaking either, so he continues to fill the air with words that aren’t the ones Taeyong wants to hear, “Hyesung’s got a suit picked out for me. And for you too, if you’re looking to get a new one. Gongmyung says she’s got them matched up for us.”

Taeyong eats in silence.

“Right,” Doyoung says, as if Taeyong’d asked, “he wondered if you could send him some band recommendations for the wedding too, said something about how the ones they were going to hire aren’t free that weekend.” He laughs disjointedly, “So much for an auspicious date.” Licking his lips, he goes on, “But you don’t have to, if you’re busy with work, I’ll tell him to find–”

“It’s fine.”

Doyoung’s appetite vanishes, though he doubts it were even there in the first place. “Okay,” he says quietly, “thank you.” Taeyong pushes the rice around with his spoon, unwilling to eat. Doyoung clears his throat, “Should we take a trip down to the suit store this weekend together then? I know it’s still a couple of weeks to the wedding, but I figured we could just get it out of the way.”

Taeyong stays impassive. Of all the times he’s been on the receiving end of Taeyong’s cold shoulders, he’s never felt as contrite as he does now. There’s always a middle ground they manage to find together; Doyoung caving in or Taeyong letting it slide, and it’s, more often than, not ground that’s found quickly into the argument. This time, it’s different.

Resolute, Doyoung keeps up, “I bought some cakes for you, from that egg sandwich café. Jaehyun says it’s a specialty of theirs, so I bought one with chocolates and another fruity kind the baker recommended.” He looks up briefly to see if the mention of cakes pulls a reaction from Taeyong, but it doesn’t. Not in the slightest. It’s then that he registers the twitch of Taeyong’s hand, as if he wanted to reach across the table and yank on Doyoung’s collar.

“The egg sandwiches were okay, but I thought the fried egg was a little too–”

The screeching shriek of Taeyong’s chair cuts through Doyoung’s words when he bolts out of his seat. Doyoung freezes instantaneously, the rest of his sentence dying in the back of his throat.

“I hate it when you do this,” Taeyong says, soft as a blink, tongue harsh. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Doyoung threads carefully, “There’s nothing–”

“Don’t bother if you’re going to lie to me.”

Instinctive, “I’m not lying, it’s–”

“Don’t lie to me,” Taeyong says. If anger and worry weren’t morphing the words unkindly, it would’ve sounded like he was pleading, “Why would you be so serious about something so trivial?”

“Taeyong,” he presses his fingers to his temples. “Please don’t make this a big deal, it really isn’t what you think it–”

Flaring up, “It _is_ a big deal!”

Doyoung blinks, defenses rising. “Don’t yell at me.”

“I’m not yelling.” The immediate hush to his voice says otherwise, but Doyoung already regrets pointing it out. He’s always so quick to rise in anger and doubt, and oftentimes Doyoung is no unworthy opponent, equaling in emotions that rush to consume him–he knows how they both can get, raising their voices to get their points across, he knows Taeyong doesn’t mean any harm by it.

Taeyong bites on his lip. Doyoung sees the fleeting look of guilt dance over his face; his eyes shine, distress doubling, “I’m not yelling at you.”

“Okay,” Doyoung whispers, wishing to take Taeyong’s hand. He didn’t want Taeyong pushed to the limit, he didn’t want any of this. “I’m sorry, okay, It isn’t important, Taeyong, it’s isn’t something we have argue about, it’s–”

“ _Right,_ of course it isn’t,” Taeyong grits out. “I know you, Doyoung. You get all quiet on me–you always do that when you freak out, you shut me out, and I–” His head snaps up, afflicted with murder in his eyes, “Where’d you even get the idea–the inclination to think that I’d want to change anything about you? That I wouldn’t want you as you are?”

Doyoung clambers to stand, stricken, “I didn’t mean that–” He loses control of his body, speaking as it pleased, “I just thought–someone taller–someone else–”

Taeyong’s expression slackens, disbelief ripping the tension from his shoulders. Seething, “Is that what you’re thinking? That I’d want someone else? Why would you–” he stops short. Then laughs, mirthless, “And you’re saying it’s nothing?”

_Wait, I–_

“This–” Taeyong inhale sharply, “It’s a problem, Kim Doyoung, this _not_ -talking. Why don’t you ever just–say what’s on your mind?”

Doyoung spins at that. How could he possibly speak his mind when he’s barely even touched the subject and Taeyong’s already all fired up for a world war? That even the slightest err in his choice of words could take their relationship to a place of no return? Bringing up his senseless thoughts with baleful words? It’s not worth the risk–Doyoung would rather eat a brick than take a chance at that. If he stayed quiet, there’d be no window of opportunity for the fates to make things worse.

Taeyong doesn’t wait for words, deeming Doyoung’s silence enough an answer. He slams the chopsticks down on the table and storms out of the kitchen, disappearing down the short hallway. By the second Doyoung understands the scene unfolding before him, he hears the door slam shut.

Closing his eyes, Doyoung wonders how long a day can last. Without question, a week must’ve passed since he left Kun’s apartment, it couldn’t have possibly been this very morning. Time crawls and Doyoung hears nothing until the slam of a second door, the bathroom’s. Wading in the leftover debris of his actions, Doyoung tosses both their dinners into the bin and washes the pile of dirty dishes in the sink. Hearing the water start, Doyoung keeps himself busy in the kitchen, anywhere but the bedroom. There would be no reason for him to go in there now; he didn’t want to talk and Taeyong isn’t going to accept that.

The stove doesn’t need cleaning, but Doyoung sets off cleaning it anyway. He scrubs at the stains of hard grease, scrubs as hard as he wished to scrub away the thoughts in his mind, scrubs for as long as his arms can bear, stopping when his hands are an angry pink. He runs his them under warm water to rid the sting, hoping quietly that the shower’d somehow miraculously changed Taeyong’s mind, that he didn’t want to argue either. He shuts the water off and goes to take the two petits fours from the refrigerator, expecting Taeyong to return to the kitchen for promised dessert.

A long while after, however, it becomes painfully evident that that isn’t going to happen.

Deadened, Doyoung tucks the cakes back neatly into their boxes and into the refrigerator. He takes a small packet of chocolate chip cookies from their pantry, and sighs once more, to himself. It’s been a long time since he’s battled with such stillness; he remembers now just how much he hates it. The loneliness isn’t something Doyoung wants to have to deal with, and he doesn’t ever want to have to deal with living in a house that doesn’t have Taeyong in it.

_Whatever is meant to happen, will happen._

Locking the door and closing the lights, he carefully makes his way to their bedroom. It’s silent on the other side of the door. Doyoung can’t tell if that’s a fact in his favor, but he enters anyway, enshrouded in pale darkness. His eyes adjust slowly, focusing on the lump already in their bed, hidden under the covers.

If that isn’t a big enough sign to say _Leave me alone_ , Doyoung doesn’t know what is.

\--

Doyoung rouses when Taeyong does. With his eyes closed, he manages to make out the sound of Taeyong twisting around, grumbling unintelligibly. He’s so close to the edge of the bed, giving Taeyong as much space as possible and most of their blanket, but he feels it anyway when Taeyong sits upright. Like a sixth sense, he knows Taeyong is staring at the back of his head, probably sending a litany of curses in his direction.

There’s more rustling and the bed dips, but Taeyong stops. He settles back into bed, Doyoung deduces from the lack of movement, and the realization why dawns on him only when he hears a familiar crinkle of a bag of cookies being opened.

He’d left it there for Taeyong after his shower, knowing for certain that Taeyong’d wake up hungry in the middle of the night. Going to bed with an empty stomach, Doyoung was confident Taeyong wouldn’t make it til morning without a snack.

Doyoung can’t help but stay awake, listening to Taeyong finish the packet of cookies in what must be less than two minutes. He stretches his limbs when Taeyong slides out of bed for the bathroom, sighing at how ridiculously sore he is from trying not to move too much in his sleep. He hears the light being closed and returns to his motionless self, curling on his side and controlling his breaths.

The bed moves once more when Taeyong climbs back in, shifting about, getting comfortable.

Doyoung counts his heartbeats and wills for sleep to come, but it doesn’t come easy. Fighting with Taeyong isn’t easy, especially so tonight. They haven’t ever fought to the point of going to bed angry, and Doyoung fights his heart and mind. _I should tell him_ , he thinks, fidgeting, desperate to turn around and hug his boyfriend to sleep. _I should tell him now. Then–maybe. Maybe, we could talk about it._

A derisive voice sounds in his mind, _Yeah, go ahead and tell him how you think his soulmark’s going to appear. And that, without any regard for the sound knowledge that he_ does _love you, you’re worried that he’s going to leave you for someone else._ Doyoung cringes inwardly, _Go on. Tell him just that._

_He’s not going to leave you. He loves me._

_Think, Doyoung: he’s believed in the fates long before he met you. You’ve only been dating a year. Don’t you think that’s too short a time for someone’s mind to change?_

_But I believed in the fates too, I thought–_

_But are you willing to take the risk?_

Doyoung deliberates moving out into the living room, he can’t do this–

The gasp that falls from his lips is far from inaudible. But Taeyong’s hand is on his shoulder now, flipping him over to lie on his back. Disoriented, Doyoung doesn’t catch Taeyong’s gaze and he’s already wriggling close, wordlessly burying himself in Doyoung’s chest. His fingers curl loosely onto the soft fabric of Doyoung’s shirt, keeping them close.

Is this an apology? A step towards reconciliation? An admission of defeat?

Hesitant, Doyoung wraps his arms gingerly around Taeyong, relaxing only when he feels Taeyong exhale faintly. The voices in his head drown in the sound of Taeyong’s heart beating, and Doyoung counts those until he falls asleep, breathing in time to Taeyong’s breaths.

\--

The next morning, Doyoung wakes to an empty bed. He shouldn’t be all that surprised, bearing in mind Taeyong didn’t like it whenever they fought with silence; he must have hated going to bed without sorting things out between them. The day starts off sluggish and Doyoung kills the voice in his mind that tell him, _This is what it’s going feel like. When he leaves you._

They live like predator and prey for the next three days, avoiding each other in the mornings, circling around the other in the evenings. Taeyong leaves bright and early, and even if his movements wake Doyoung, Doyoung stays quiet. Something in him says that neither of them are ready to talk, that space is what they need. The evenings are better, though dinners are taken in lengthy silences, occasionally broken by Doyoung’s unsuccessful attempts to ask about Taeyong’s day. It isn’t until they’re both in bed that an untangible bond pulls them together, sliding under the covers and far from the edges, seeking, needing the closeness.

Enveloped in darkness, their fight ceased to exist.

\--

The suit, as Doyoung tries on a cool Saturday afternoon, is comfortable. It’s an all-black look, sharp-looking and well-fitted; the blazer’s of a light material, fastened together by a single, hidden clasp across the middle of his torso. It pairs perfectly with the collared, loose-fitting shirt Hyesung picked, its opening lined by a thread-like seam of silver. Doyoung fidgets until he decides to leave the top two buttons undone, revealing a shy two inches of skin under his clavicle. The pants need to be tapered, the kind tailor tells him, directs him not to move while he pinned them into place.

“Does the waist fit well?”

Doyoung studies his reflection in the full-length mirror, “Yeah, it fits fine.”

“Good,” he mumbles, resuming work on fitting the pant legs tighter.

Not long after, the pants seem to look better on him, accentuating rightly the length of Doyoung’s legs. It’s in quiet agreement that the tailor leaves, mumbling for a notepad to mark the changes. Left alone, Doyoung picks his phone up from where it’d lain atop his pile of clothes, bringing the camera up for a quick picture. He sends it to Gongmyung, expecting the reply that pings not a minute later.

 _I like it._ Another ping, _Send one of Taeyong’s too._

Right. _He’s not here_ , Doyoung says, fingers flying across the screen. _He had to go into work today._

On a _Sunday_. Doyoung isn’t daft to know just how far Taeyong’s willing to go to avoid him.

_Oh. No rush on the suits, hey. Could’ve waited so we could see you guys in them together._

Doyoung, at this point, is numb to everything. Waking up to a cold bed, the deprivation of _I love you_ texts, watching Taeyong come home and head straight for a shower without a word, without a glance at dinner, at Doyoung–it’s taken a toll on him. He watches the message bubble appear then disappear.

 _Hyesung says you look good._ Gongmyung’s text is accompanied by an influx of emojis. _She wants to pay for Taeyong’s suit, says it’s a thank you for the help on getting that band she originally wanted._

Doyoung finds that he hasn’t got anything to say. He didn’t know anything about Taeyong and the wedding band, he didn’t know Taeyong’d been in contact with Gongmyung or Hyesung, he doesn’t know a lot of things these days. Between the final week of his classes and the empty apartment, everything in-between is a blur. Waiting for Taeyong to come home only to suffer in deafening silence, only to count the minutes until they’re lying in bed together. Tentative touches and cautious looks, fight disregarded.

How long can Doyoung like this without breaking, he isn’t in favor of finding out. Chances are, not much longer.

“I have another suit here,” the tailor returns. He comes around the lifted platform, holding it up for Doyoung to see. It’s a matching all-black suit, but instead of the silver on its hem, there’s a design of warm gold. A black, satin bowtie hangs untied on the coat hanger. The tailor reads off the piece of scrap paper stuck to the back of the metal hook, “For a Mr. Lee.”

“Yes.” Doyoung swallows thickly. Speaking on Taeyong’s behalf when they haven’t spoken in days–it didn’t feel right. “We’ll–come by again soon. To have the suit fitted.”

The tailor is unbothered, “Alright, then I guess that’s all I need for your suit today. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Doyoung shakes his head and the tailor excuses himself, leaving the fitting room for him to change out of the suit. He’s careful with the pins down the back of his legs, shimmying them off and shrugging his jeans back on. The tailor says to ring the store before returning the next time, so that he could have Doyoung’s suit all done up and Taeyong’s suit prepped for any alterations. Doyoung thanks him and leaves the store, feet heavy against the concrete sidewalk.

He walks up to the corner of the street to study the green signs, numbers telling him he’s two blocks away from 59th. It’s been a while since he’s last been there, it being the time Taeyong pulled them off the streets to catch an impromptu live performance in a dingy hall with terrible ventilation. It was then and there the worst decision they’d ever made, but Doyoung doesn’t remember too much about the crappy performance; he’d been too busy hiding in the back row with Taeyong, trying to keep their snarky comments and derisive laughs to a minimum.

Now, 59th is busy, as it is on the weekends. Like the Sunday months ago, the first time Doyoung’d ever walked the streets with Taeyong. He didn’t exactly have much of a penchant for shopping, but it’d always ended up being an enjoyable date whenever Taeyong brought him along. Watching Taeyong’s eyes widen at whatever new collection the high fashion brands are bringing in, or new releases of limited-edition sneakers that’d set them back collectively thirty years of debt, Doyoung loves most when Taeyong returns to his side after circling the store, fingers lacing together like second nature.

_I just–_

The tip of his sneakers catches onto a crack in the pavement, throwing him forward and sending him flying out of his reverie. No arms shoot out to catch him this time. Doyoung stumbles forward, flailing piteously, righting himself before his face meets the pavement. The ground glowers up at him, and Doyoung staggers a few steps back, overcorrecting the fall.

“Dude, you good?”

Doyoung nods jerkily, keeping his head low and shying away from stranger’s kindness, embarrassment rushing through him. They leave, not without giving Doyoung another look, and Doyoung draws in a long breath.

_Taeyong._

The ache in his heart splits a crack right down the middle.

 _Call him_ , Doyoung tells himself. _This has been going on for far too long, just call him._

The picture that cones up attached to Taeyong’s contact makes his heart stutter a second. It’s of one Doyoung sneaked during their early months together; Taeyong’d been so tired from work that he’d wound up falling asleep three minutes into the movie he’d so adamantly fought Doyoung to watch. After taking the picture, which turned out to be too cute for blackmailing purposes, Doyoung lugged him to bed and tucked him in. For too long a moment then, Doyoung watched him snore through his mouth, unrefined and graceless–the first time he realized just how much and how fast he was falling in love.

His hands work before his mind can tell him not to.

“Pick up,” he mumbles, the line ringing in his ear. He continues down the crowded street, waiting for Taeyong to pick up. The line keeps ringing, almost never-ending.

Doyoung thinks it’s on its final ring that the line goes through, “Hello?”

The ground is shakes under his sneakers. _I miss you_. _I miss talking to you, hearing you laugh. I don’t only want nights with you anymore._ “Hey.” Dumbly, “It’s me.”

It’s noisy on the other end too, but Doyoung hears Taeyong breathe in softly, “What is it? Did something happen?”

At once, Doyoung feels his resolve waver. It’s only right Taeyong would think he had an ulterior motive for calling. Like the cold war between them is meant to last forever, that Doyoung didn’t simply just _miss_ him.

“Nothing happened, but Taeyong, I–”

“Sorry,” he’s cut off. “I’m busy at work, I’ll see you at home.”

Doyoung presses the phone harder against his ear, “Wait, Taeyong–” The line doesn’t cut off. He steps aside on to a smaller street, avoiding the rush of tourists. Inarticulate, “Can we–talk?”

“Now’s not a good time,” Taeyong’s voice crackles when the line does. It’s so _noisy_ on his end of the line, “I’ve to go, I’ll–”

“Where are you?” The question slips through. He strains to hear Taeyong, “I thought–aren’t you at the office?”

The line is filled with chatter and the telltale beep of a crosswalk. Taeyong waits a beat too long to say, “I was. I’m out for lunch now.”

Lunch. Doyoung starts on his way again, weaving through the mass of people, “Are you still nearby the office? I’m five minutes away–I’ll come over and we can–”

“What?” Taeyong’s voice rises above the noise, “Where are you?”

“59th.” Doyoung moves on memory, recognizing the buildings leading up to Taeyong’s workplace. It’s a route he took every Wednesday of this last semester, walking from campus to meet Taeyong just in time for their dinner dates. “I know things have been–rough lately,” he says quickly, anticipating Taeyong’s objection, “but I want to talk, Taeyong. I–I miss you.”

Nothing. Taeyong trembles a sigh, “Doyoung…”

“I’m sorry we fought,” he says, speeding up. “I know I worried you and I’m sorry.”

Faintly, “I’m sorry too, Doyoung. But–” the blood drains from his face, _what is it?_ “This really isn’t a good time. I have a lunch appointment soon.”

Doyoung stops in his tracks, “Oh.”

“I’ll see you tonight,” Taeyong tells him. He’s rushing, like he’s trying to get away. “Okay? Doyoung? Is that–”

A sixth sense. The softest kiss of electric.

Doyoung nearly drops his phone, his soulmark _burning_. Bewildered, Doyoung stares at it madly, marigold as steady as it’s ever been. He looks up the street, then down, a brand of hot fear seizing at his very core. _What?_ The city suddenly feels all too daunting once more, the swarm of the crowd ready to swallow him whole. He’s in the midst of gathering his bearings, of bringing the phone back up to his ear when he sees him.

Even from across the street of eight lanes, Doyoung sees him.

And it’s only because Taeyong’s staring back too.

He stands, on the edge of the curb, watching Doyoung come to his senses. Doyoung blinks twice, doubting himself for a moment that it’s actually Taeyong that’s looking straight at him. He’s spotting a leather jacket and his favorite pair of ripped jeans, Doyoung notes; he hadn’t seen Taeyong leave this morning, but he’d recognized that pair of jeans anywhere. The sight is on the verge on unreal, and there’s a tick on the back of Doyoung’s neck, badgers him to think, _Something isn’t right._

And then Doyoung sees _him_.

And it’s only because he’s staring back too.

A silhouette from even this far that Doyoung can tell is enviable. Standing tall, taller than Taeyong by more than just a measly inch or two. He’s close by Taeyong’s side, an unreadable expression on his face, on the perfect curve of his cheeks, the tall bridge of his nose, the sharp line of his chin. His arms are crossed over his chest, the buttons on the white sleeves of his dress shirt undone.

It’s so _familiar_. Doyoung feels an itch in his chest, perplexed at the memory of seeing this face–but _where?_

“–young,” he hears. Panicked, _why_? “Doyoung, listen to me–”

“Who is that?” It’s surreal, hearing Taeyong in his ear and watching him from such a distance. He sees Taeyong’s shoulder rise, “Taeyong?”

“Doyoung–” and then he’s stepping onto the street, like he was thinking of dashing through the herd of rushing cars. He’s stopped, grabbed by the arm. White sleeves fall to the crook of the boy’s elbows, revealing the dark ink tattooed.

He squints, _That–where have I seen–_

Taeyong shrugs free, “Doyoung, stay there–”

“What are you doing?” Doyoung doesn’t like the alarms going off in his head, “Don’t just cross the road like that, of course I’ll wait here, I’ll–”

Those tattoos.

“Doyoung? Doyoung–”

He’s seen them in pictures, that’s where Doyoung’s seen them. It can’t be anyone else–Doyoung knows not another soul with such brazen ink on their arms. And it clicks–the lean physique, the flawlessly coiffed hair, the semblance to a model fit to walk a runway. Pictures that’d once been framed on Taeyong’s bookshelf, pictures that’d once plainly meant so much to Taeyong, pictures that’ve now been replaced with ones of Doyoung instead.

Is that why his soulmark–

“Doyoung–”

“That’s him, isn’t it?” For the sorrow encapsulating his heart, Doyoung notes the level he manages to hold, “That’s your ex-boyfriend.”

_The one you loved._

“Stop.” Taeyong is rushing down the sidewalk now, bumping shoulders with everyone in his way. His eyes remain on Doyoung, “It’s not what you’re thinking–”

“I’m not thinking anything,” Doyoung says. He scares himself, listening to the resignation seeping into his words, “I’m not thinking anything at all.”

“Don’t do this,” he’s told. Taeyong reaches the crosswalk, but the light doesn’t change. “We were just going to have lunch–this is the first time I’ve seen him since–since–” It’s unmistakable, the jealousy brewing, “It’s not what you think, Doyoung.”

He exhales sharply, “Then why didn’t you tell me about it, if you’re keeping it a secret then–”

“I’m _not_ keeping anything a secret.” Taeyong sounds distorted through the call, “I haven’t spoken to you in three days, Doyoung, how was I supposed to tell you about something so–”

Another kiss to his wrist. Doyoung’s knees buckle, “Your soulmark.”

“My–” Taeyong slams the crosswalk button, “My _what_?”

The word fades away, “It colored in, didn’t it?”

“What? No, Doyoung, what the hell are you talking about–what soulmark? I don’t–”

“But you could.” Doyoung doesn’t see a point in hiding any longer. If his soulmark for Taeyong is going to fade, then Taeyong deserves to know that he’s sorry he isn’t the one for Taeyong. That is, if Taeyong doesn’t already know it. “You could meet someone today and it could appear, you–could cross paths with someone that was meant for you–and you could have a soulmark color in for him.”

Across the street, Taeyong shakes his head, “Is that–”

“Someone better, taller, kinder–someone–”

“Is that what you think?” The light turns white. Taeyong’s hand remains on the crosswalk button, his feet rooted to the ground, “That’s what you’ve been thinking? That I’d–miraculously have a soulmark?”

“It’s not an unreasonable thought.” Doyoung wishes the sky would fall, “It’s not _impossible_ for you to have a soulmark.”

“So what if I do?” People turn to stare at where Taeyong stands, unmoving. The light starts its countdown. “So what if I get a soulmark today? Tomorrow? Ever? Did you think I’d just run off? That I’d,” it’s punched out of him, “ _leave_ you, just like that. That I wouldn’t even consider your feelings? Or our relationship? Us? That I would even _want_ to leave?”

“It isn’t–”

“What?” Taeyong’s stare, from tens of feet away, pierces a gaping break in Doyoung’s heart, “Did you even consider the fact that I want to be with you?”

 _It’s not something we can change,_ he wants to say. The horde of cars start to move again, trapping Taeyong in a blur of black, white, and yellow. _We can’t just rewrite what’s meant to be._

“Is that what you think? That I don’t love you?”

In a blink, Taeyong disappears from the sidewalk. Doyoung loses him the crowd, in the mess of passing cars, and the line goes dead. The reality of it is too much to handle, his heart’s in his ears, skin on fire, breakfast rising to the back of his throat. Several paces down, Doyoung loses the slender figure and tattooed arms too. The morbid, high-pitched sound of the deadened line drills itself into Doyoung’s prefrontal cortex.

He tells himself, _It’s over._

\--

Doyoung never understood love.

He recognized it whenever his mother cooked him his favorite meals, whenever his father would take shorter days at work just to pick him up after school, whenever Gongmyung would do him the favor of not eating in bed. He recognized it when his friends complimented his relentless, class-disruptive singing, when they encouraged–pushed, even–him to sign up for that singing competition in high school, when he came in first and heard the roar of cheers that echoed throughout the amphitheater. He recognized it when whenever he heard a song that spoke straight to his heart, whenever he found a safe place to hide in, whenever he takes a second of his day to remember just how fleeting life is.

He recognized it, but he didn’t quite understand.

He didn’t understand why Gongmyung would give up a generous paycheck and a managerial position in one of the city’s best accounting firms, just to settle with Hyseung back in their hometown. Just to settle with a run-of-the-mill job at a smaller company, barely earning enough for them to make ends meet. He didn’t understand why Gongmyung couldn’t convince Hyesung to follow him into the big city instead, why he couldn’t persuade to quit her job as a teacher and find a new one here, why he made it seem like it was such a big deal to have her move on his behalf.

He didn’t understand it when Gongmyung explained that he didn’t want Hyesung to uproot her life just for him. That he didn’t want this to be something they’d have to argue about for the next years of their lives. That he didn’t care if he made less money, as long as he made enough. That he only cared about being with Hyesung. That he only thought of Hyesung, of their future, when he made the decisions. That he wanted only the best for Hyesung, even if it meant giving up the job he’d worked so hard for–it was something he was willing to lose.

But then, he started to.

He understood love when Taeyong left the last pieces of food for him at every meal, even if he were still hungry by the end of it. Every spring roll, slice of beef, stalk of broccolini, Taeyong would leave it for Doyoung, digging through their refrigerator after for tubs of ice cream to appease his still grumbling stomach. He understood love when Taeyong would join him in the library, just to sit with Doyoung while he rushed to finish papers and readings. Without any work of his own to do, Taeyong’d simply sit and play with his phone, a comfortable silence; he’d never complain about waiting, Taeyong would say, “I don’t mind it at all.” He understood love when Taeyong laid his past bare for Doyoung to hear, even though he didn’t need to, even though Doyoung only asked for his own selfish reasons.

He knows love. Recognizes it, understands it.

In an empty bar on 57th, Doyoung finds that maybe he’s starting to know of heartbreak too.

\--

_Pick up._

_Pick up your phone._

Everything threatens to dissolve into nothing.

Doyoung turns it off.

\--

His foot taps to the live music, cranberry vodka in his hands. His rings clink against the glass whenever he raises it to his lips, still on his first drink, the only one he’s ordered since entering the bar. There’s a neon sign hanging above the wall of liquor, _Olives_ in a pretty, cursive font. Doyoung had ducked in about two hours ago, some place hidden in an alley not all that far from the apartment. He hasn’t left his spot by the end of the bar, nursing on his single drink, too afraid to go home.

“Can I get you anything else?”

The bartender looks at him kindly, and accepts it well when Doyoung refuses. He didn’t want to drink, not when there’s an inevitable fight he’s going to have to face when he _did_ return home tonight. The rest of the day’d been spent wandering aimlessly through the streets, the sickening repercussions of his ignorant thoughts enough to have him walking on every street, turning at every corner. He’d promptly collapsed onto the bar seat the moment he’d entered Olives, legs light from having roam the maze of the city.

His phone rests, dead, on the counter.

Doyoung thinks to call Kun. Thinks to call and ask if he could have his room back for a couple of weeks, just so he could have a roof over his head while he searched for another room to rent. He thinks to call Jaehyun. Thinks to call and ask if he knew anyone at the university that could house him, just until he finished off the last leg of the semester. He thinks to call Gongmyung. Thinks to call and ask, “Should I come home? Now that it’s over–I’ve no reason to stay.”

He takes a sip.

He doesn’t want to call them. He doesn’t want to call anyone. There’s someone he _should_ call, but–how could he? How could he call Taeyong after hurting him–saying all those things over the phone, of all ways? How could he call Taeyong after thinking the worst of him–denying them both the proper chance to even talk things out? Denying them both the chance of ridding this stupid fight? How could he call Taeyong after today–after what he’s done, the very action that could push Taeyong into thinking that this– _us_ –isn’t something he wants any longer?

_I should have kept quiet. I shouldn’t have said anything._

Against his wrist, the soulmark remains.

With the near future so uncertain, Doyoung discovers that he can’t bear looking at it.

\--

_Did you turn your phone off?_

_We have to talk now, Doyoung. Pick up._

_Pick up, Kim Doyoung. I swear to god. If you don’t pick up._

_Where are you?_

_Doyoung._

_What are you thinking, just stop this._

_You keep assuming things. Nothing happened with Sehun. I can’t believe you think I would do anything._

_Pick up your phone._

_Please just tell me where you are. Are you safe?_

_Call me as soon as you see this. Come home, okay?_

_I’ll go to you, wherever you are. Pick up._

_Please don’t do this, Doyoung. Whatever it is, let’s talk about it._

_I’m not going to leave you. I’m never going to leave you, so don’t leave me. Don’t just leave me hanging like this. I don’t have a soulmark, I won’t. It didn’t color in, I don’t know what you’re talking about, I don’t know what you’re thinking anymore. Come home, okay, just come home and we can talk about it. I want you to come home._

_I was meeting Sehun for lunch. That was all. He’s helping me with a project, it’s strictly business. I didn’t mean to not tell you about meeting him again–I didn’t have the chance to. We were fighting. I wasn’t hiding anything from you, Doyoung. I would never do that to you._

_Why won’t you trust me?_

_You don’t have to come home. Just tell me where you are. I just want you to be safe. Please be safe._

_I love you. Don’t do this._

\--

Doyoung wakes again.

“Sorry, but–we’re closing up now, buddy.” The hand on his shoulder, he groggily registers, belongs to the bartender, “Do you need me to call you a ride?”

“Uh,” he’d fallen asleep? “No, I–I–what time is it?”

“Past three.” _In the morning? Jesus,_ “Are you sure? I could call someone for you, it’s no big–”

Tightly, “No.” Doyoung clears his throat, “I’m fine, I live near here.”

The bartender looks at the remnants of his drink, deciding to trust Doyoung, leaving him to his own devices. Doyoung appreciates it, gathering whatever bearings he’s got left to stagger out onto the street. The way back home is uneventful, barren considering the time, and he’s through the lobby before he can strip the exhaustion from his eyes.

It isn’t until he’s standing outside apartment 808 that the day returns to him. The impulsivity of his actions, the claims he’s made, the issues he’s solely created. It could’ve been nothing–if he’d listened to Taeyong and just _talked_. About the soulmarks, their fate, about chances and possibilities and wants and desires. If he hadn’t acted so impetuously, if hadn’t been so quick to believe everything he heard, everything he thought.

The light seeping from under the door tells him that as long as the day had been–the night’s not about to end.

Doyoung rips the Band-Aid, pushing open the door to 808.

“–don’t know, I don’t know, Yuta–I tried calling, he won’t pick up–I’m so–”

Taeyong spins. The sight makes Doyoung cower.

His hair’s pushed up, sticking out in odd angles, like it’s been gripped and yanked on. His cheeks flush red, wet with drying tears. His lips a blood-red from how it’s been so cruely bitten. He’s still in the leather jacket and ripped jeans, the coffee table littered with wadded up tissues, standing by their couch. The cushions are strewn haphazardly on the ground. The air in the apartment is stale; the windows are all shut and there isn’t the familiar whir of their AC unit.

It’s relief Doyoung first sees. The softening of Taeyong’s eyes, the whispered exhale that slips through his lips, the drop of his shoulders. He gives Doyoung a once-over, as if he were checking for any sign that he’s been hurt. Even in a fight, Taeyong cares for him before anything else.

When he concludes that Doyoung is indeed fine, the anger comes next.

Clipped, he snarls into the phone, “He’s home.”

Doyoung says nothing. He waits, heart cold. The battle between anger and relief is plain for Doyoung to see; the way Taeyong grips onto the hem of his jacket, as if deciding between reaching out and wringing Doyoung for answers, or pulling him close into an embrace. It’s neither he acts on, turning away from Doyoung and retreating into their room in great strides. Once more, the door slams.

The apartment drowns. The pressure builds so quick behind his eyes, forces Doyoung to stand with his skin on fire, pushes him to think, _It’s over. I’ve lost him._ And even if Taeyong does decide to end things tonight, Doyoung could blame no one but himself. He caused this. All of it.

The door is thrown open.

Taeyong stomps back out into the living area, setting a good five feet between them. He watches Doyoung, venomous even without words, trying to pull an explanation out of his boyfriend that’s been petrified as still as stone. It irks Taeyong even further, the sound of only his rapid breathing filling the silence. When he opens his mouth to try and first apologize, Taeyong snaps,

“Are you out of your mind?” He’s _livid_. The rims around his eyes are an angry pink, a clear indication of just how much Doyoung’s put him through. Yet, here still he stands. “Where the hell have you been?”

Doyoung frets speaking; what could he possibly say to make things better? What could he possibly say to have Taeyong stay? Did he even want Taeyong to stay? If it were for Taeyong’s sake, shouldn’t he–as Jaehyun has said–walk away? 

Taeyong speaks, anxiousness manifesting in anger, “Do whatever you want, Kim Doyoung, but you should at the very least have some courtesy to tell me wherever the hell you are so I don’t think you’ve got your head cut off by some murderer on the streets!” He sucks in a deep breath, “That you’re not _dead_ in a ditch somewhere! You’re so–I was so worried, I couldn’t stop thinking if you’d been hurt, if you’d been mugged, Kim Doyoung, I can’t believe–”

“I’m sorry,” Doyoung cuts in; Taeyong has to know that he is. “I had my phone turned off, I–”

“I know you’re angry,” Taeyong lets out sharp exhale, “but are you kidding me right now?”

Doyoung raises his hands, “I’m sorry–”

“You’re _not_ sorry,” Taeyong steps towards him, shine returning to his eyes. “All you do is keep things to yourself! You won’t tell me anything, you don’t even _trust_ me, Doyoung,” he scorns, “You’re not sorry.”

Fire with fire, Doyoung hurls back, “I _am_ sorry.”

“No, you’re not!” Taeyong raises an accusatory finger, “You don’t tell me anything. You never bother to talk me–it always has to–”

“What’s the point?” Doyoung says, rather harshly, in a tone Taeyong’s never heard before. The dust settles in silence, “What’s the point of telling you if you can’t do anything about it?”

“What–”

“So what if I tell you?” Doyoung shrugs. If Taeyong wants to know so badly–if he wants to know of the words that can so easily destroy their relationship, fine. It isn’t as if Doyoung hasn’t already ruined it for them, “So what if I tell you I think I’m not good enough? That I think maybe the fates are right, that maybe this,” he looks pointedly at Taeyong, ignoring the shrinking feeling, “isn’t meant to be.”

Confusion foremost, “What the hell are you talking about?”

Doyoung looks to the ground. He can’t stand looking at the genuine apprehension on Taeyong’s face, “That’s what I’ve been thinking about. That I’m not good enough.” He jitters on, “If I were good enough, your soulmark would’ve colored in. It would’ve appeared. It would’ve colored in, and it would’ve matched mine. It would’ve meant that I was meant for you, like how my soulmark tells me you’re meant for me. But it didn’t.” Doyoung shakes his head, “So what if I think that–if I say it out loud, if I tell you about it–it’s only going to make it real.”

Taeyong disregards gap Doyoung’s forced between them, covering it and standing far too close. His chest invades Doyoung’s view of their carpeted floors, “What is going on with you, Doyoung? Why do you keeping bringing up soulmarks and–finding someone better? I’m not going to, I’ve told you this.”

“You didn’t use to doubt the fates–”

“The fates? Doyoung, we’ve–we’ve gotten past this.” Doyoung looks up, regretting at the sight of Taeyong’s shock, face pale. “I don’t care about the fates anymore, _you_ changed my mind. Don’t you know that? How could you not?” He trembles, and Doyoung breaks. He truly believes it, “You’re more than a soulmark. I don’t–I will never have–”

They’re back to this afternoon, “You can’t know that. You can’t. There’re a billion people in the world. You can’t know that you won’t have a soulmark, and–”

“And what?” Taeyong’s clenches his fist, holding himself down, “I wouldn’t be with you if I had even the slightest inclination that I’d get a soulmark, Doyoung. I don’t need that. I’m not half-assing this relationship, Kim Doyoung.” The sarcasm drips heavily, “Do you think I’m just with you until my true love comes running down the street? That I’m just killing time, being with you? Loving you?”

“I–”

“Thinking that I’d get back together with my ex? Is that what you think? Why would I bother _loving_ you if I had thoughts of finding someone purely because they’re capable of having my soulmark appear?” Taeyong whispers, as if it hurt too much for him to think Doyoung truly thought this of him, “Why would I bother being in love with your stupid face, bother with the fact that I _want_ to be with you?”

Doyoung balks, “My stupid–”

“I don’t care, Doyoung!” Fresh tears roll down Taeyong’s cheeks, clinging to his chin, “I don’t care if I get a soulmark one day. I don’t care if it colors in and it doesn’t look anything like yours–I don’t _care._ ” He isn’t trying to keep from crying anymore, “I don’t care if I’m bound to some other idiot by the fates! By the yellows of a soulmark, by the red string of fate–I’d cut it off.” Taeyong gasps, taking struggling breaths, “I’d _cut_ it off and I’d tie myself to you, Doyoung. I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

Doyoung holds him by the arms, tries to ground them. Taeyong struggles in his hold, struggles just to struggle. The sobs wrack through his frame, to the point Doyoung fears he can’t ever right this wrong. Can he ever?

“Okay, I–Taeyong, I’m–”

“Why would I–why would you think that I’d just leave you? What did I do wrong?” He pushes against Doyoung’s chest, taking Doyoung’s heart with him, “Why do you keep insisting on insinuating that I’m capable of doing such _hurtful_ things to you? Like I’m some sort of–”

“You didn’t do anything, wrong, Taeyong, I–” His vision blurs. The airways in his lungs threaten to close, threaten to break him apart. “I just thought–”

“You’re not–you don’t think.” Taeyong glares at him with tears filled to the brims of his eyes, “You keep all these thoughts in your head and you shut me out. You’re just like–” _like your ex?_ Taeyong doesn’t say it, knows he can’t ever take it back, “You _shut_ me out! Then you make me rip it out of you. Do you ever think about how that makes me feel?” Simmering, “Does it look like I want to be angry? Like I want to have to do this whenever you get upset?”

“Taeyong, please just–listen, I–”

“You’re the one that isn’t listening.” He steps away, shaking his head, “Why can you just talk to me, Doyoung? Why don’t you trust me?”

 _Please stop,_ Doyoung reaches for his arm, touches him gently, “I do trust you.”

Taeyong laughs, incredulous. “If you trusted me, we wouldn’t be having this argument.”

Unsteadily, Taeyong stalks back into the bedroom, taking everything him–Doyoung’s heart, words, breath. Doyoung follows automatically, “I trust you, Taeyong, I do–I’m sorry, I know I should’ve talked to you about it, please just–” Taeyong grabs his work bag off the hook behind the door, and Doyoung moves to stop him, “Where–where are you going?”

Taeyong speaks to the wall, sparing not a glance. He fights for words, “Yuta’s.” He snatches the bag back from Doyoung, “And I’m only telling you so that you won’t be worried to death, so that you won’t spend hours crying like I did, over the possibility that I may be dead somewhere.” Roughly, “If you even care.”

“I _care_ ,” Doyoung says. And it sounds so horribly sanctimonious, but he has to say, has to have Taeyong know, “I care about you, Taeyong, I–I love you.”

”You don’t–”

Doyoung is so _sick_ of that word. He’s so sick of everything–the hiding, the assuming, the not-believing. 

He touches Taeyong again, high on his arm, wishing, hoping, _praying_ to all the gods that are listening that they just please stop. That it’s selfish, asking Taeyong to give him another chance, after assuming the worst of him, after dredging up unwelcomed memories, after shoving them both through a whirlwind of an argument that could’ve so wholly been avoided if he’s just _listened._

“I know you’re angry, but please–” Doyoung drops to circle his hand around Taeyong’s wrist, willing for Taeyong to look at him, “Don’t leave tonight.”

“You should’ve thought of that before you turned your phone off and ignored all of my calls.” The words hold venom, but Taeyong whispers it, says it like he’s more disappointed than anything, “You can’t do that to me, Kim Doyoung. You can’t.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “Just please–don’t leave tonight. It’s selfish, I know, but if you leave– _please_ don’t.”

Their moves are measured, Doyoung stepping close until Taeyong finally gives in, dropping his bag to the ground. They’re pulled together like magnets, sticking tight at the slightest touch. Taeyong’s hands first find purchase on the front of Doyoung’s shirt, bunching them tight, burrowing his face into the side of Doyoung’s neck. Doyoung hugs him by the shoulders, relishing in it, having restrained himself from even thinking of touching Taeyong for the most of the past week.

“I’m sorry, I just–I didn’t want to talk–”

“You’re–”

“I mean,” he hugs a little tighter, tries to keep them anchored together, “I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to say what I should’ve told you, what I wanted to tell you.” Taeyong untangles the shirt from his fingers, throwing his arms around Doyoung’s waist. The touch feels like home. “I had–a rough day. A rough couple of days. I had too many thoughts and I know I shouldn’t have been thinking them to be true, not when I have you, but I couldn’t–I didn’t know how to–”

Taeyong gives him silence.

“I know I should’ve talked to you, but I couldn’t,” Doyoung closes his eyes, breathes Taeyong in, “I thought that if I didn’t talk about it, it’d go away–but it wouldn’t _stop._ I want to talk about it now, Taeyong, even if it means fighting over it.”

“We’re already fighting,” Taeyong points out, fairly miserably. He unlatches himself to rest his forehead to Doyoung’s, gaze fervent, “I don’t get it–why can’t you talk to me, Doyoung, I–I go to you first and foremost with everything life throws at me.” Taeyong clutches tight, “Why don’t you ever do the same with me?”

“I–”

“It makes me feel like you don’t trust me as much, when you don’t talk to me.” _It’s not–_ “Like you don’t love me as much.”

“That’s not true, you _know_ it’s not.” Taeyong says nothing. “I just can’t bring myself to, I’m afraid–” Doyoung pains at the words, “I think you’re–underestimating how afraid I am of losing you.”

“You’re not going to lose me if you talk to me.” The air around them is so unbelievably still, “Confide in me. When you don’t, I feel–I feel like I don’t matter enough to you, you won’t even tell me what you’re thinking about, I–”

“You mean the world to me, Taeyong–”

“It doesn’t feel like that when you hide things from me. Things that are important, things about _us._ ” Taeyong mumbles, “Don’t shut me out again.”

Doyoung drops his eyes. They flutter shut at the lightest touch of Taeyong’s lips against his, moulding into Taeyong’s hold. He shivers into it, arms wrapping firmly around Taeyong, resting his hands with no other reason than to simply touch Taeyong. He whispers, “I’m sorry I pushed you away. I didn’t mean to, Taeyong, I swear–I thought I had it under control–I didn’t want to worry you.”

Taeyong kisses him again, “I’m sorry too. For getting mad. But now–” he pulls them apart, regards Doyoung with a look meant to chastise, “Talk to me.”

\--

“It’s okay, right?” A pause, “This?”

Taeyong fiddles with the ring on Doyoung’s pointer finger, “What?”

“That we fight?”

He slips the ring back onto the finger, takes Doyoung’s hand, and rests it over his chest. There’s the faint _ba-bump, ba-bump_ Doyoung feels under it, waiting patiently.

They’d found their messy way to the bed, tumbling into it to hide under the covers with their legs intertwined. Taeyong listened with rapt attention as Doyoung recounted that fateful day–his conversation with Kun, his lunch with Jaehyun, his call with Gongmyung. He whispered the thoughts from the darkest corner of his mind, asked Taeyong for a truthful answer–if a soulmark were to grace the inner of his wrist one day, would he leave?

“No,” Taeyong said, equally soft, only for Doyoung’s ears and the space between them. He took Doyoung’s hand and brought marigold to his lips, spoke against it, “This is for me and for you.” He kissed it dear, “My first thought would be you, Doyoung. Soulmark or not, you’re my soulmate.”

Doyoung refused to cry at the confession.

“What I feel for you,” he mumbled. The marigold rests quiet, “It’s more than the fates. More than what I used to believe in, more than the old traditions we both know, more than what everyone else thinks–you’re more than that. You’re more than a mark on my wrist, and I want to be more than a mark on yours.”

“I love you,” Doyoung had said, knowing nothing else to say. He took Taeyong’s hand, kissed it where his soulmark could be, “ You are more than this, and I love you.”

“Yes,” Taeyong says eventually. He hooks his ankle to Doyoung’s, wrapping himself in the warmth, “It means I’m still fighting for you.”

Doyoung squeezes his eyes shut, hides his face in Taeyong’s shoulder, “I am too.”

“Are you?”

“I am.” Doyoung amends, “I will.” He speaks into Taeyong’s shirt, “I won’t shut you out.”

After a pause, he feels Taeyong rest a kiss on his crown, enough an answer. As much as Doyoung felt the need to keep his thoughts hidden, he didn’t like it either, the gnawing feeling in his chest that worsened with every second he purposefully hides something important form Taeyong. He isn’t being asked for much either; enough to ensure Taeyong isn’t completely blindsided by the overwhelming things Doyoung can’t help but conjure.

“Do you still love me?” Doyoung asks. He knows the answer; he just wants to hear it.

“So much.” Taeyong slips a hand down Doyoung’s back, “I love you.”

“I love you too. I’m sorry I made you worry.”

“And I’m sorry I said you have a stupid face.” Doyoung makes an indignant noise, conceding when Taeyong caresses him with gentle touches, “You don’t have one.”

“You can call me whatever you want,” Doyoung murmurs, burying himself in Taeyong. He squeezes their hands hard, a futile form of punishment. Taeyong says no more, so Doyoung busies himself to the beat of Taeyong’s heart, to the rise and fall of his chest. Blankly, he notes the beat of his own heart being drowned out by Taeyong’s.

“Sehun is a tattoo artist.” Doyoung can’t stop his limbs from locking up. It’s all instinct; he doesn’t have space in his heart to think of Taeyong ever leaving him–especially not after their fight–at least for tonight. Taeyong ignores it, keeps his hand on Doyoung, soothing. “I’ve been thinking about that–getting a tattoo.”

Doyoung shifts to shake loose, “Oh.”

“He knows a couple of good places to visit, so we agreed to meet for lunch. Just to discuss this.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” Doyoung says. He wants to say that he was never really worried about Taeyong returning to his exes; he only feared what could happen if Taeyong had his soulmark color in–a fear they’ve already decided is absolutely redundant. Sincerely, “I trust you.”

“I know,” Taeyong sighs. He lifts Doyoung’s hand, twisting it a little just to have the soulmark face them both. It brightens under their scrutiny, “I was thinking of getting a flower. Just a small one.”

A warmth creeps under Doyoung’s skin. He thumbs at Taeyong’s wrist, just below the sensitive pulse point, “Here?”

“I know it isn’t as permanent as yours, but I wanted it. Though now,” he pulls his hand from Doyoung, tucking it between where their hips touch, “I’m not sure if I want it anymore. I thought–it could be _my_ soulmark. For you.”

Doyoung pushes up on an elbow, staring down at Taeyong’s face, taking in the hesitancy he sees, “You don’t need a soulmark.” He whispers, “You don’t.”

Taeyong reaches up for Doyoung’s cheek, “You mean it?” He pinches, but not hard enough for Doyoung to pull away, “You don’t think I need one for you?”

Doyoung rolls on his back, resting his cheek on Taeyong’s palm, watching him carefully. He speaks with honesty, “Deep down, I do.” Taeyong’s eyes flicker with unease, but there’s surprise there too; Doyoung corrects, “But I don’t want to think that anymore. I don’t want to think that you do. And if I can change your mind about the fates, you can change mine too.”

“Are you sure?”

Doyoung twists, kisses Taeyong’s palm, “Yes.” He doesn’t like the relief Taeyong sighs, doesn’t like how he’s doesn’t ever seem done with hurting them both. He closes his eyes, hides behind them, “I don’t want to lose you anymore. I–I never want–” quietly, “I’m sorry.”

“No more of that,” Taeyong tells him, then kisses him. “No more being worried on your own, Doyoung, I’m here,” he promises, “You have me.”

The words chime softly once more, _I have you._

Breaking Doyoung out of his reverie, Taeyong grabs his face with both hands, mushes him until his eyes fly open, wincing at the way Taeyong’s squeezing.

“ _Ow_ , Taeyong–that really–what are you–”

“I love you.”

Doyoung weakens, “I love you too.”

And Doyoung realizes then, looking at the heart-stopping way Taeyong’s smiling at him, delicate in a way, that it’s forever, how much he wants this for them. How he cared only about this smile, this _love_ that’s taken his heart away. He doesn’t mind it, losing his heart to Taeyong–he can’t ever imagine his life without him, he didn’t want to think of it–he’d lose it in a heartbeat–whatever he could afford to lose, whatever he couldn’t, as long as it could be fixed. He’d lose it all, if it meant being with Taeyong. Even if it takes today, tomorrow, forever, for him to come to terms with all that is–this is enough. Soulmark or not, Taeyong is enough.

Taeyong is more than enough.


	4. Chapter 4

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in  
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere  
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done  
by only me is your doing, my darling) 

i fear  
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want  
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)  
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant  
and whatever a sun will always sing is you 

here is the deepest secret nobody knows  
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud  
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows  
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)  
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart 

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

\-- _[i carry your heart with me (i carry it in]_ , E. E. Cummings

\--

Later

The skyline looks unbelievable tonight. Buildings by buildings by skyscrapers by skyscrapers, Doyoung dedicates a liberal amount of time studying the view, trying to remember as much of it as he can, saving the memory to reminisce over again later. It’s a little warm out too, with summer soon approaching, so Doyoung treasures the nightly breeze whenever it comes by; even if standing on the rooftop of a fifty-two story building is a little nerve wracking.

The days have been shorter than they’ve ever been, what with his new job at a small magazine company Doyoung’d gotten under Yuta’s kind recommendation; he finds time slipping from his fingers, the days blending into one another. Mornings are early with daily meetings, afternoons are packed with appointments gathering photographers and editors and everyone he has to meet, and evenings are spent rushing mountains of deadlines. Relaxing nights have been scarce lately, so Doyoung takes the moment to appreciate the solitude.

Though, it doesn’t last for long. He looks down and away, eyes scanning the crowd of guests for Taeyong, just to check up on him, just to look at him. And it’s embarrassing, how often he does this–in malls, on the streets, and basically anywhere with more than five people, honestly. Doyoung just likes looking for Taeyong, looking _at_ Taeyong–it makes his heart beat a little faster, his footsteps a little lighter, his love a little louder. It’s calming in every way, amazing just how a single look can allay his qualms.

To his dismay, however, Taeyong is nowhere to be seen. They’d arrived together tonight, of course, but his boyfriend was almost instantly whisked away by the wedding planner, needing his absolute advice on the music set-up and whatever logistical issues Doyoung didn’t catch. Taeyong’d promised he’d be back soon, after fulfilling his rightly duties, and Doyoung had no choice but to let his date for tonight run free. He was left to his own devices; he’d wandered off to the sides to lean against the glass railings and watch the night sky, quietly nursing his glass of champagne.

Around him are several guests he’s seen before, but he never goes further than trading polite closed-mouth smiles or a congenial _Hey, it’s nice to see you again._ Instead, he takes the moment alone to appreciate the night.

With the open-air concept of tonight’s wedding, it isn’t like any other he’s been to. There are rows of silk covered chairs, with an aisle parting down the middle, the edges of it decorated beautifully with an array of white and baby pink flowers–garden roses, chamomile, and blush dahlias, Doyoung’s told at some point along the preparations for tonight–arranged prettily with filler flowers too. The vanilla-scented wedding cards on each seat (holding names and a thank you message) were painstakingly hand-calligraphed by Taeyong, another favor the married couple requested of him, knowing his love and collection of ridiculously couture fountain pens. 

The entire place looks like the gates to the heavens, and it’s entirely predictable, knowing the mind behind tonight’s décor, all with his love for anything rosy and pink. 

Even the wedding favors were rose scented candles.

“Hey there stranger.”

Doyoung straightens when he’s held by the waist, smiles when he’s spun around and met with a kiss. Taeyong kisses him slowly, sweetly, reflecting the atmosphere the night’s so successfully made.

“Hey you,” he grins, taking a step back to admire how stunningly the suit looks on Taeyong, soft on the curves, trimmed at the waist, “You look beautiful.”

Taeyong beams, basking in it, kisses Doyoung once more with a pleased moan. He takes a sip from Doyoung’s glass then, smacking his lips at the fizziness, “You don’t look too bad yourself, I must say. Your hair, in particular.”

“Thanks,” Doyoung says, watching Taeyong finish the remnants of his drink. “My boyfriend helped me with it.”

Taeyong nods, “Your boyfriend sounds like a true professional.”

“He’s the best. I'll be sure to tell him just that.” Doyoung takes the empty glass and sets it on standing table nearby, so that he’d be free to hold Taeyong close, “Everything alright back there?”

“You could say that,” Taeyong slips his hands under Doyoung’s blazer, stealing heated touches over the thin shirt Doyoung wore inside, “Youngho’s having a mental breakdown, but I hear Taeil’s having an early dinner in his hotel room. Says he’s too hungry to wait til after the reception.”

“A mental breakdown,” Doyoung echoes. “Is he going to be okay?”

“He’s saying his tie isn't the right color. Taeil told him to pick between the two he'd set out and Youngho's having an internal battle between the blush peach and blush pink.” Taeyong doesn't sound at all sympathetic when he says, “He's freaking out over nothing–the difference between those two shades are virtually non-existent.”

“Shouldn’t you be doing something about that then, as best man?”

“Co-best man,” Taeyong corrects. His hair tickles Doyoung’s neck when he shrugs, “I’ll leave Yuta to deal with him. He’s always been better at that. Plus,” Taeyong rubs his cheek against the soft linen of Doyoung's suit, "he's always worrying about things like these. There isn't much I can do; Yuta on the other hand–”

“Tough love.”

 _“Really_ tough love.”

Doyoung can only hum in agreement. He doesn't know why the idea of Youngho worrying over color choices seem so overtly familiar to him; the back of his mind tells him he's once heard a conversation not unlike this one, but he can’t quite put a finger to it. Brushing it off, he sways them easily to the instrumental rendition of a love song Doyoung can’t name, enjoying the sweet lull of it, the feeling of Taeyong in his arms.

Lowly, as if not to break the quality around them, “Can’t believe we’re here again.”

Taeyong looks to be on the verge of falling asleep. "Hm?"

“At another wedding.”

“That's right,” Taeyong sighs. He leans onto Doyoung like dead weight, “Feels like we were at your brother’s wedding yesterday.”

That had been months ago, the year before, if Doyoung’s memory isn’t failing him. Given all that had happened, their trip down to Doyoung’s hometown, Taeyong meeting his family, the wedding and its inevitable trials (Hyesung lost her something blue; Gongmyung refused to go up without the wrinkled piece of scrap paper holding his vows)–Doyoung considered it to be a success. Everyone that asked about the soulmark asked only once, courteous enough to drop the subject, encouraged to do so by Doyoung’s impassiveness.

And Doyoung’s mother had accepted Taeyong _so_ easily. So terribly easy that even Doyoung'd thought he was seeing things when his mother rushed out to them coming up the driveway, hugging Taeyong before he could even recite the three lines he'd been repeating in the car, _Hello, Mrs. Kim. My name is Lee Taeyong. It's so nice finally to meet you._

His mother cared nothing about that; she wanted to know only if Doyoung'd been treating him well, if Doyoung'd picked up after himself back at the apartment, if Doyoung'd spent too many late nights out. Taeyong was whisked away from him quickly, nodding attentively to his mother's animated recount of every single one of Doyoung's embarrassing childhood stories. She prattled on and on, and Doyoung'd been awestruck, left on his own by the threshold of their family home, both their bags in his hands. No one batted an eye at his arrival, attention fully on Taeyong and his very existence.

“I'm so happy,” his mother had gushed, while showing them what she’d done to Doyoung's old room. She'd turned it into a spare bedroom for guests, and specially set out fresh towels this time for Taeyong too. “When Doyoung first told me he'd found his soulmate, I couldn't believe anyone would pick him, of all people.”

“ _Mom_ –”

“Oh shush,” she’d said. “You can’t expect me not to be worried–with Gongmyung off getting married, you’re the only son I have left to worry over.” She ignored Doyoung’s offended gasp to take Taeyong in a hug, “Welcome–to the family.”

Gongmyung says it’s thanks to all the groundwork he’s laid before, but Doyoung doesn’t believe it. He thought that Taeyong deserved all the credit; he knows how worried Taeyong had been over the four-day long weekend, convinced that it was a test he so desperately had to pass, preparing himself with answers to questions he thought were to be asked. He’d told Taeyong not to worry, that, if anything, he’d step in, but Taeyong refused that, stubbornly insisted that he needed to prove himself.

“I know I don’t have to.” Taeyong had shoved his face into Doyoung’s stomach, legs dangling off their precarious position on the couch, “But I want to. It’s different if I want to.”

Doyoung resigned, “Okay. Only if you want to.”

As it turned out, Doyoung needed saving more than Taeyong did.

Forgetting to turn the AC down in their room, waking up late on the day they were going to take Taeyong to the nearby farmers’ market, grabbing a glass of water for himself but not for Taeyong (“He didn’t even say he wanted any water!”)–the smallest things seemed to set his mother off, chiding him at every chance. Taeyong had said it was merely because he was in a guest in the house, but Doyoung was dead set on booking a hotel if his mother kept it up. He’d been childishly petulant about it, and the only comfort had been Taeyong’s calming touches and sweet words.

Other than that, Doyoung’d been glad to show Taeyong at least a little of his hometown; the diners he used to camp out in, the studio he rented when he was so diligently practising for that one singing competition in high school, the park he used to run to over weekends whenever he wanted to escape doing chores. Sharing those precious memories with Taeyong, in-between running errands for the wedding–it’d been the highlight for Doyoung.

That weekend had been a whirlwind, but Doyoung couldn’t find it in himself to think of anything but the fact that they’ve crossed another hurdle together–and that even with the hundreds of hurdles the fates have set out for them, he know Taeyong will be there with him, by his side. Despite everything, they have each other.

It’s inherent, being with Taeyong. Cosmic forces be damned.

“When I saw Yuta earlier,” Taeyong picks on the hem of Doyoung’s shirt, “before Youngho started to hyperventilate and he had to run off for Youngho’s inhaler,” he speaks with intention, “he showed it to me–his engagement ring.”

Doyoung had seen it a few weeks before the proposal. Jaehyun had sought him out once more, taking Doyoung on a trip around the city with a handful of jewelry stores as their only destinations. He’d decided on a simple gold, engraved on the inside. It hadn’t been something that caught Doyoung’s eyes at first glance, but Jaehyun was instantly drawn to it, hovering over the display, breath fogging up the glass case. It was only after Jaehyun’d turned to hold it up against the pea-sized shade of sunflower on his wrist that Doyoung managed to associate the uncanny resemblance in the color of the ring to the yellow of Jaehyun’s soulmark. It wasn’t the _exact_ same shade of gold; it was a complement of the soulmark, more like.

There’s a question in there. Doyoung stops them for a moment, thinks of what to say. He decides with, “I want that. With you.”

Taeyong is anything but surprised. A violinist starts to accompany the piano, stringing sounds bright and full, “I want it too.”

Doyoung thinks he could drop to a knee right now and say the words they both want to hear, but it isn’t the right place. It needs to be special, he wants it to be special. Taeyong deserves only the greatest. But he kisses Taeyong, kisses to seal the deal. Taeyong slides his hands up Doyoung’s chest, wrapping his arms around Doyoung’s neck.

“Three weddings in a row,” Doyoung mumbles in disbelief. “I’ll have to pick up a second job to afford all the wedding gifts we’re getting-I honestly regret getting that Dyson now. I mean, really, do we need a vacuum cleaner that expensive?”

“We do,” Taeyong laughs, kisses him again. “And it's four weddings. Maybe we should have had our wedding first. Re-gift everything we got.”

Doyoung snorts, “Very economical.”

Taeyong gives him a lopsided grin, “Learned it from the very best.” Doyoung drops to kiss the smile away, to kiss Taeyong languidly, pouring into the kisses whatever he can’t yet translate into words. Taeyong pulls back, looks like he’s ready to throw them both to the ground, “We’re doing this.”

It’s not a question this time.

“We are,” Doyoung says.

The world spins at the thought of it. Nothing is perfect, nothing will ever be, but Doyoung thinks that’s what love is. It’s understanding that even in the hardest of times, there’s that desire to put Taeyong first, that Taeyong places him first too., that he sought Taeyong out first, that Taeyong does the same. Even in moments of pain and fear, he wants that with no one but Taeyong, that he could fight a thousand battles if it meant fighting for Taeyong.

Taeyong tugs Doyoung’s hand free, brings it to his lips, kisses marigold. Doyoung moves to kiss Taeyong then, wanting the attention on him. It’s only the smooth slide of their lips together, but Doyoung loves kissing Taeyong his this; whenever Taeyong parts for air, Doyoung chases, latching onto Taeyong’s lower lip, never letting him stray far.

Taeyong sighs, pleased, and Doyoung pulls away to smile down at him, “What are you thinking?”

“About us,” Taeyong tells him, “about you.” Doyoung waits, rubbing his hand soothingly over the small of Taeyong’s back, “I’m thinking–I might not have this for you,” he says, to Doyoung’s soulmark, thumb pressing firmly against marigold.

It’s kind; there’s no longer a resentment to it, and Doyoung feels the same way, no longer wishing for anything other than what they have.

The soulmark is for them both.

Taeyong’s cheeks redden, “But you have my heart.”

Doyoung places his hand over Taeyong’s heart, the marigold brilliant against Taeyong’s shirt. He feels it beating under his palm, feels his own there. “And you have mine,” he exhales shortly, breaking into a smile, “You’ve always had my heart.”

Taeyong really does tackle Doyoung this time, enough to have them both teetering off their feet. He kisses the shell of Doyoung’s ear, voice dripping with delight, “I have your heart. I’ll have it forever, and forever,”

he says, “Forever–I’ll carry it in mine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you.
> 
> [marigold](http://www.designlovefest.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/11/11241.jpg): people believed that picking marigolds or looking at them for a long period of time can turn someone into a drunkard. others regard the marigold as a love charm.


End file.
